 
HOUSTON, 2030: The Year Zero.

Mike McKay

Text copyright © Mike McKay 2006-2014

Cover illustration copyright © Mike McKay 2013

Smashwords Edition License Notes

The right of Mike McKay to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.

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# Chapter 1

Mark's mobile phone vibrated on his desk and emitted a high-pitched beep: an urgent Police call. The caller ID was from a small Police station, or beat, as they called them in Houston, at the north-eastern boundary of their district.

The FBI Special Agent-in-Charge touched the screen. "Mark Pendergrass."

"Sir, Deputy Kim here. GRS. We've got another case!"

"The Butcher?"

The phone crackled. "Yes, looks like. Two vics, youngsters, in the woods. The girl... You see it for yourself. I thought to call you right away instead of going through the Dispatch..." Then, after a short pause: "Sorry..."

"Location?" Mark tried to stay calm. The two-year chase made him weary.

"North of Sheldon Reservoir Park, corner of Pineland and Garret. Tan and I are already at the scene. Looks fresh..."

"OK, Deputy, we are coming. Please make sure everything is intact..."

Mark disconnected the call and marched to the Station Chief's office across the hallway. Major Benito Ferelli, a stocky man in his early sixties, updated a spreadsheet. Two dozen personnel records piled on the desk.

"Tell me good news, dude," Benito raised his eyes from the computer screen.

Mark shook his head, indicating no good news would follow. "Just got a call, Ben. Two more victims for me. North of Sheldon-Res."

"Shit... Shit! When is it going to end?" From a hook on the wall, Major took a car key and threw it to Mark, "go catch the Bear. Get Missis Gardener from the lab. Do you need a deputy – as well?"

"Thanks, Ben. Three of us can manage..."

Despite Mark's position was called Special Agent-in-Charge, he no longer had other agents under him. The only FBI representative in this part of Houston, he took care of two Police districts: one hundred and thirty square miles and four hundred thousand population. After the FBI staff reductions, they had to rely on the Sheriff's Office for practically anything. Fifteen minutes later, Mark and the officers were preparing one of the two remaining response vehicles. Sergeant Investigator Alex Zuiko filled diesel from orange two-gallon jerrycan, while Natalie Gardener, who already changed to a scene coverall, checked the contents of her CSI kit.

Alex Zuiko, in his mid-fifties, was an immigrant from Russia. Being in the States for twenty years, he spoke literate English, but with a strange mixture of Texan and Slavic accents. In the Police beats, they called him Russian Bear. As rumors had it, before coming to America, Alex was involved with either the Russian mafia or Russian Police, and both organizations used the same interrogation methods. Alex never repudiated the rumors.

Natalie Gardener, the CSI, twenty-six and new to the district, already proved herself useful. Cheerful and humorous, she could stomach even the most gruesome scenes and work a case for several days, with almost no sleep. Such a strong team, Mark thought, but it can't help this case.

The chain of murders started in June 2028. The FBI was not officially involved until case number three, but Mark helped out at the crime scene later named case number one. Mark was convinced the case followed an exploded love triangle: a young man finds his former girlfriend with another fellow. Perhaps, he has military background – most young men have one nowadays. A knife is pulled, and both lovers are killed. The murderer removes the girl's breast. Unusually cruel, but not impossible: maybe, hiding a tattoo or other evidence.

Back then, Mark predicted this investigation would not last. With proper legwork, such cases were cracked within a week or two, despite an unusual lack of forensic data. The Police interviewed the victims' families and friends, but with no clue revealed. Five weeks later, another couple died in the woods in very much the same way. This time, the killer took away the girl's lower leg. The third murder followed, exactly one month after the second. Again: two young lovers in the bush, and again, the girl's lower leg was cut off. After a brief denial, the Police had accepted a sad fact: they had a serial killer at large.

And so, the Sheldon Butcher investigation landed on Mark's plate. After all, the FBI still had a mandate for serial killers.

A twenty-seconds pause upon a short turn of the starter allowed oil to spread through the bearings. After starting the engine, Alex let it warm up for another thirty seconds before driving off. A great driver, Sarge frequently complained he only drove on sad occasions of homicides or other major crimes. The Police cars were not much in use for any other, less pressing cases: fuel – prohibitively expensive, and budgets – limited.

On C.E.King Parkway, Alex switched the truck's blinking lights and a siren, but Mark told him to kill the show. Mid-afternoon, traffic was light. Few push-bikes and tricycles did not interfere with the Police vehicle, and they had no reason to alert people unnecessary. After all, the dead were dead. Avoiding multiple potholes, Sarge navigated to Garret Road. The upstream part of Sheldon Reservoir, or Sheldon-Res, as the locals abbreviated it, was to their left, and from here looked more a sedge swamp than a lake. A small patch of woods extended to their right. The beat deputy waited for them at the head of a dirt trail in the woods under rusted and barely visible sign: CRITICAL WATER SUPPLY. EXCLUSION ZONE. Violators may and will be prosecuted.

They got out of their truck, and Mark introduced Natalie to Deputy Kim. He and Alex knew this man from their previous case – of the same serial killer's chain. Upon the introductions, the team followed the young policeman along the dirt trail. One hundred and fifty yards on foot, and they found themselves at the crime scene. A little secluded clearing in the bush made a pretty spot if not for the yellow-and-black police tape stretched between the trees. The second local cop, Deputy Tan, guarded the scene. Bystanders, mainly teenagers, watched from behind the tape.

The first victim, a man no older than twenty-five, was face-up on a blood-soaked picnic pad. Next to it, a pair of heavy Army boots, one boot accompanied by a standard, government-issued, leg prosthesis. Mark felt sympathy for the victims – his older son, William, was also an Army veteran. He caught a brief glance of Alex, who gave Mark a short nod. Despite the difference in ranks, Mark and Alex had a lot in common. Not your typical close friends, they drank enough beers together. Like Mark, Alex had a war veteran in the family: his son was wounded at the Mexican front and lost a leg. Three months earlier, investigating similar crime scene, Russian Bear made a secret promise that if they find the killer and have an indisputable proof, no arrest and no trial would follow. This animal had to die running, and by no means a quick painless death either.

The second vic, a young woman, was face-down in a pool of dried blood. Her jeans were cut at the back, and the meat from both buttocks and both upper legs – removed to the bones. A swarm of flies buzzed above the body.

"It's the same M.O. all-right," Alex pointed to the female victim.

"Let's hope we didn't get ourselves a copycat," Mark replied, "as for now, you may call it case number sixteen, Sarge..."

Natalie started the usual CSI routine, setting plastic numbers next to everything at the scene and making photos. Mark studied a patch of grass under his feet – not to disturb any evidence, switched his mobile phone into a map app, and placed the phone on the ground. The GPS navigation was notoriously slow: only thirteen GPS satellites remained active around the Earth, and a proper location fix would take time.

"Want to do the witnesses, Alex?" Mark asked. More than anything, the Special Agent desired to be left alone. I've been on the case too long, he thought.

He watched how Sergeant approached Deputy Tan, who in turn pointed at three boys, eleven or twelve by the looks, in the small crowd of bystanders. The boys, in tattered but reasonably clean school camo and barefoot, clenched their school bags. Typical Amerasian kids, Mark observed. Mischievous, but well-disciplined. The usual story: they went to the park after classes, probably for a quick dip at the Reservoir. Suddenly found the bodies; scared, they ran to the nearest dwelling to call adults. Unlikely the boys report anything of value. Most of the previous scenes were also discovered by kids in the early after-school hours.

On the picnic pad: a tiny Sunbeam electric lantern, a plastic box with home-made cookies, and a small thermal flask. Tea for two. Naturally, before having sex. Not their first time together in the woods, Mark concluded: the young man disconnected his artificial leg – one got to be exceptionally brave to show his disability during the first date...

After each serial killer's attack, the Police issued warnings through the local TV and radio stations, asking youngsters to avoid woods after dark. It had the same effect as if you asked them not to have sex. Mark thought of his son William dating Clarice two-three years ago. They also disappeared to nearby parks almost every night. Mark's second son, Michael, was going through the same period, but Mark was unaware if any of Mike's girlfriends were of permanent nature.

"Mark, I've got the preliminary T.O.D.," Natalie approached, "by the body temperature and the insect insemination – between 7 PM and the midnight yesterday. Well, you can safely assume it from 8:20 PM, – the sunset was at 7:53, give another half-hour to get dark. Both vics are killed with what looks like the same standard-issue Army knife, and both – with a single hit to the neck."

"Did you see the glove pattern?"

"Yes, the same rubber dots as on the other scenes. The most prominent imprint is on the girl's right leg, below the knee," she scrolled through photographs in her camera. Yes, this was 'their' serial killer, not a copycat.

Many believed the Butcher was called so because of the mutilated victims. Mark and few others knew the full story. The serial killer received this name after the fourth murder. On the crime scene, officers found a flyer from a butcher shoppe: a cow carcass scheme with names of different cuts. It looked a valid lead initially. The killer was very proficient with his knife, as one might expect from a butcher, and the flyer had several distinctive fingerprints.

They followed the lead enthusiastically, locating the butcher shop. Everybody had a rock-solid alibi. The fingerprints belonged to the male victim, the butcher's mother-in-law and two boys. On the morning of the murder, the kids distributed the flyers to multiple dwellings, including the house of the victim. Perhaps, the vic himself used this paper to wrap a snack.

Thus, the butcher flyer led them nowhere, but the name stuck. Someone in the Police should have kept his or her mouth shut. The newsies learned about the body parts being cut off, someone leaked that the FBI interrogated a butcher, and media's vivid imagination did the rest. Anyhow, the name turned out sufficiently descriptive, and now even the FBI used it in official documents...

Mark glanced at the bystanders: the crowd grew. Inevitably, the detectives made the news again. A young woman behind the police tape held a tiny video camera pointed at the scene. It looked like she was tending to a vegetable patch before running here with her camera: a conical straw hat, long-sleeved mens shirt and khaki work pants, rolled up to the knees. The TV stations could not afford their camera vans anymore, but multiple volunteers, such as this girl, supplied the footage. Add few wise-cracks from the anchor, or an 'educated opinion' from a standby 'expert,' and the evening news would be ready to roll. At least there were no real reporters – with their invasive long-shot lenses and directional microphones – less chance of any information leaks.

He retrieved his telephone from the grass. A red cross of the GPS fix sat over a toned-down satellite photograph, but on the screen Mark did not see the trail, and the woods appeared denser. No surprise here: space photos dated at least fifteen years and did not match the actual land features anymore. He extracted a stylus and attached a note to the fix: #16. ETOD 20:00 to 24:00 04/22/2030. Male: Caucasian, 20-22 yo. Female: Amerasian, 17-20 yo. M.O. consistent (gloves, knife).

The perpetrator was careful, methodical and what CSIs called forensic-aware. In the chain of fifteen known murders, no significant material evidence and no witnesses! The same Army knife was used each time. Of course, if the knife was found on the perp, the CSIs could match it to the wounds, but otherwise – a poor lead. Thanks to endless wars the USA had been fighting since 2001, there were millions of identical Army knives in circulation.

The Butcher always wore simple working gloves – textile with tiny rubber dots on the palm side. They left no fingerprints, and despite the limited supply for the last several years, one would still find a pair in every household. The CSIs found no usable footprints. None of the victims were sexually violated, which meant no biological evidence. On several occasions, they located potential witnesses, often young couples, who happened to be in the same woods around the time of the murder. One couple nearly walked into a fresh corpse, less than an hour after the kill. Sadly, none of the witnesses heard any screams or saw anything unusual.

The FBI best hope was that one night the Butcher would make a simple, stupid mistake. Why don't you, bastard, cut your finger or drop something from your pocket, Mark fantasized. Or get yourself robbed, so the mobsters take your own knife and stick it back – between your ribs. Or suffer a traffic accident. No cars on the road, but you still can get under a horse or collide with a speeding cyclist. Or move to another state, why freaking not? Let's say, Florida! Wonderful state and has plenty of forests. Move to Florida and kill lovers there, not on my territory. Or throw your ass from a sky-scraper!

Alex returned to the picnic pad, "So much for the witnesses, Mark. The boys are from Null Middle, two miles to the west, and live in Chinamerican slums north of Garret Road. I got the names and the parents' phone numbers, so we can contact them later, if anything. On the way from school, they always swing by these woods. They saw just one body, the girl on the grass, blood and all, and ran to the local blacksmith, that gentleman on the left."

"With the leather apron?"

"That's him! He called Kim at the Beat, then came here with the boys. The smith's helper – that fellow next to the blacksmith, a bodybuilder, with no shirt... He came next. Lucky us, the good men prevented the crowd from roaming over the scene. The Beat officers arrived twelve minutes later."

"Anybody else?"

"Nope. All the others just saw what we saw. I've collected the names and phone numbers..."

As foreseen: no worthy witnesses.

"Can we get the local deputies to do a door-to-door tomorrow?"

"Not a problem. I give deputies a hand," Alex replied.

Natalie handled Mark two plastic bags with the victims' belongings: no IDs and no mobile phones. The girl's purse included the usual lady stuff: a little mirror, a re-manufactured lipstick, and a comb with few missing teeth. The man's pockets contained about nine hundred dollars: twenties and fifties. In the purse, – a single five hundred-dollar bill. Less than fifteen hundred dollars among two of them – not much. The couple was not murdered for money.

"I got the vics' fingerprints and sent them to Identifications," the CSI said, "for the male, we got a positive already. You have a CC. For the female – they are still searching, but – I would not expect an ID any time soon."

Mark nodded and pulled out his phone. The e-mail had an attachment: a standard US Army personnel record, in PDF format. He scanned through the terse statements. Hobson, Nicholas S. Born in 2009. High-school incomplete: dropped off at fifteen. No criminal record. Drafted in 2027, the US Army Corps of Engineers. A boot camp in Fort Worth. Deployments: Colombia, 2027, Mexico, 2028, Venezuela, 2028. Decorations: a Purple Heart. Honorably discharged in March 2029... Shit! William also got his Purple Heart in Venezuela!

The last known address: 187th Street, New York, NY. No registration in Texas whatsoever. The file contained a mobile phone number. Mark dialed it right away, just to hear an automatic message: this number has been disconnected. There was an e-mail address too. Mark composed a message: If you are reading this, please contact urgently... Mark's e-mail address and the phone number followed. As slim as the probability was, the e-mail account might have more than one owner.

"I'm afraid, no ID on the female," Natalie said, looking into her phone. Twenty years ago, a girl of the victim's age would get her driving license, and with the license came fingerprinting. Now private cars were no longer in use, and the driving license dropped off the girl's priority list. Only the Department of Defense supported the mandatory conscripts' registration, and only for combat-fit young men.

"This e-mail address," Mark pointed to his phone screen, "can we figure out how to get data from the provider? The recent mails sent or an address book on the server?"

"Already thought of this," Natalie said. "The server is in Quebec, former Canada. For those guys up-north, an order from a Texan Justice of Peace and an order from little green Martians, – have the same legal power. Even if they reply, they tell you the account is encrypted, the server has been set on fire, the backup copies – shipped to Bulgaria. And the damn Yanks may go mind their own business, thank you so much! Or should I say: merci beaucoup?"

"Still, a polite asking will not hurt."

"I'll try tonight, but almost sure it won't work. I'm no good in French."

"The male vic is not registered in Texas, but his family members may be," Alex said. "Can you ask Identifications to run all the Hobsons in the area?"

"Hobson is not an unusual surname, Sarge. How wide do you want the search?"

"The victims must be not from far away," Mark said, "I don't think the male vic walked more than a couple of miles on his artificial leg..."

"Oh, you never know, Mark," Alex disagreed, "a young man may go into a great deal to impress his date... On the second thought, you're probably right. The female has wooden flip-flops. Flowers and hieroglyphs. In these, one can't walk fast or far."

Natalie chuckled: "You, gentlemen, don't use hand-painted jandals much, do you? They're a fashion accessory, not practical shoes. The girl's bag has a two-inch carabiner. If you have to walk a mile or ride a bike, you kick jandals off and hang them on your bag, simple enough... Wait a moment... You do have a point! On her jeans, there are three – little black spots, see? I didn't get it first, but guess what?"

"What?"

"It's an imprint of a rear sprocket! The victims came here on a bike. I admit, it's not a fact and can be a coincidence..."

"Well, there is no bike at the scene," Mark said, "the Butcher may take it, but it doesn't fall into his modus operandi... Probably, somebody had visited the clearing before the boys got here this afternoon. If the victims had a bike, it opens our search to ten miles."

"OK, I will ask the girls to run ten and twenty mile radii for us. But don't hold your breath, gentlemen. There will be tons of useless hits."

They worked the scene for another hour, meticulously searching the grass and the bush. Several e-mails from Identifications confirmed that no female's ID could be recovered, and the current address of the male victim was unknown. No missing person with matching description had been reported. The surname search returned over fifty hits, few with associated phone numbers, most without. Mark rang all the numbers, with no luck. He envisaged several long days ahead: checking all the other addresses.

"It will go dark in two hours. I'd say, we bag the vics and bring them to the Station," Mark decided.

"Yep. No sense to wait," Alex nodded, "our flashlights are pretty wasted. On a full charge, the batteries will not last even twenty minutes."

This was against the standing orders. Every effort was applied not to bring the bodies into the morgue, but to make the relatives to pick them directly from the scene, so to save fuel and electricity. Yet, Mark had no choice. They could not wait much longer.

After wrapping into reusable tarps (the supplies of single-use body bags were long exhausted), the policemen carried the bodies to the pickup. The evidence was all packed and loaded, and the Beat deputies had removed the police tape. Right before the sunset, the detectives left the scene for the Station. This time, Natalie was driving – she begged Sarge to allow her behind the steering wheel. With two hours of her mandatory training, she was not any faster than your average bicycle.

It took them another hour and a half to siphon the remaining diesel to the jerrycan, surrender the car key to the on-duty deputy, and complete the papers for the bodies and the evidence. The rest had to wait till the morning. Ten years ago, high-profile crime investigations would run day and night. Not anymore. The electricity and fuel became too expensive to perform any meaningful activities during the dark hours; the paperwork and database searches – could be done from home.

Mark changed from his office clothes to a T-shirt and sandals, – and jumped on his bike. Considering total darkness and inevitable potholes, the five-mile trip home would take from forty minutes to an hour.

He rode east, towards Sam Houston Tollway. This was the better part of town: newer houses, and away from the slums. Everything was locked up, and the streets were deserted and dark, save for an LED lantern here and there, and an occasional dim glare of TV and computer screens in the windows.

# Chapter 2

At quarter to eleven William and Clarice waited for Mark in front of their tiny TV, showing Back to the Future II re-run. The rest of the house was quiet and dark, – all the other family members had gone to bed.

Two years ago, William simply walked in and announced his girlfriend Clarice was pregnant, and therefore they decided to get married. Mark and Mary were outraged.

William refused all conversations about abortion, and Mark did not press the issue. By the State law of 2025, an interruption of a healthy pregnancy equated to a first-degree murder. Being an FBI agent, Mark would not send his potential daughter-in-law to a black market medic, which left the only option to have the procedure done in one of the states that had not passed the same drastic legislation. After studying the Internet, Mark discovered that the closest place with abortions both legal and relatively safe – was in California.

Mark and Mary soon learned it was too late for an abortion anyway, as Clarice was expecting in under three months. "Why the hell have you been quiet for half a year?" Mary asked back then.

"It's not like I can't predict what you two may say," William replied, "remember, I'm not asking your permission, or anything. We will be married, regardless. If you don't like Clarice to stay with us, we can find a place of our own."

William's fiancée was an orphan who lost both parents and two brothers in the 2023 avian flu epidemic, and lived with distant relatives, as an unpaid housemaid. Mark felt pity for her and gave his approval, but thinking at the time this would be the worst decision ever. The eldest son's early marriage did not fit with Mark's expectations. Truly gifted, William could make an outstanding career, even in the difficult post-Meltdown times.

Upon a little wedding ceremony, Clarice, with her drum-like tummy, moved in. She proved herself cheerful and easy-going, and a decent cook. Despite Mark's initial concerns, Clarice and Mary got along quite well. In due time, Clarice gave birth to a healthy boy, named David, after Mary's father. Soon later, William received his draft orders. Mark remembered how William bade them goodbye, standing next to a military motor-bus, holding little Davy on his arms, and smiling. "Three years in the USACE – no big deal," he kept on saying. "The Engineers – is not the damn Infantry! Don't you worry. I'll be back in one piece." William's military service ended rather abruptly, and a career was now out of question.

"Dinner?" Clarice asked.

"Shower!" Mark replied. With an LED lantern in hand, he walked straight into the downstairs bathroom. After four hours at the crime scene, he could not eat dinner yet.

The city sewer stopped working six years ago, but Mark ran a length of PVC pipe, so gray water went into the backyard – for vegetables. The shower operated from a fifty-gallon plastic barrel installed on the roof. On a sunny day, Mark enjoyed almost-right temperature. Because of the barrel, the procedure was nicknamed Submariner's Shower. Fifteen seconds of running water to wet your skin, then forty-five seconds to wash the soap off. At least, Mark did not need to save the soap: several families opened tiny soap factories, and their product, if not of the best quality, appeared at the local flea market – at reasonable price.

On such a day, Mark would give his right arm for a shower like they used to be before the Meltdown: strong, long, and hot. The last time he had one – eight, no, already nine years ago. Well after the Meltdown, but Americans still pretended it was business as usual. People drove private cars sometimes, the FBI budget provisioned for charter planes, and few five-star hotels were happy to organize a conference.

Two hundred mid-level FBI personnel were summoned to Houston from three states to participate in seminars and brainstorming sessions. The official target was to establish strategies for dealing with the evolving organized crime: bootlegged gasoline, slave labor, and so on. Mark remembered little of what had been presented or decided; most of it became irrelevant within a year. Instead, his memory recalled the external attributes of normalcy. For the entire week, the participants were in classic FBI outfits: suits for men and power-dresses for women. The restaurant served real beef steaks and real coffee, and the rooms were air-conditioned. But the most important hotel luxury: showers! Real showers, one could make hot or cold as needed, with fragrant shampoo and bath gel. You stood under shower for good half an hour, and never ran out of water.

Yes, it was a great week! By the event's last day, Mark almost convinced himself life would somehow revert to normal, how it was before the Meltdown. Then, holidays were over, and reality – back. On the way home, he stopped at Houston downtown flea market to exchange his formal suit for two second-hand school uniforms. His daughters, Samantha and Pamela, were about to go to school, and needed those far more than he would ever need his black jacket. Mark was right: the FBI had never held a formal conference again.

A bit refreshed, Mark returned to the sitting room and started on a cold dinner Clarice saved for him. Today, the menu included tofu steak with bell pepper and boiled corn on the cob.

"Ris saw you on the evening news, Dad. A double murder?" William started. Quite as Mark predicted, the camera girl had delivered her footage.

"Yet another unfortunate couple."

"Hey, you're a movie star! Ris said: everybody looked real detectives from the CSI Miami! But honestly, it will take you a long while to become as natural as those pros on TV." William had never been good at making jokes, but it did not prevent him from trying.

"In Venezuela," Mark asked, "did you meet a guy named Nick Hobson?"

"You mean: a digger? No. But the name rings a bell. I think he left just before my deployment. Stepped on a mine, I believe."

William wiped remnants of his left eye with a short stump of his left arm, then made a futile attempt to reach his empty eye socket on the right. His right arm was amputated through the shoulder, with no stump at all.

"Who is Nick Hobson?" Clarice kissed William and poured Mark flower tea.

"Nick Hobson. The dead body on TV. Killed in the woods, along with yet unknown girl, that's all," Mark was too tired and mentally wasted for a conversation about his serial killer case, and changed the subject. "How was your charity business today?"

"Excellent!" Clarice said, "two hundred and fifty-three dollars!"

"Apparently, my personal record," William nodded.

Since December, William participated in Change For Vets charity program. The deal simple enough: a military veteran, with the official Salvation Way red plastic bucket, collected charity donations. The revenues were fairly divided: fifty percent to Salvation Way and fifty – to collector. While William performed his duties, Clarice volunteered for soup kitchens: cleaned veggies, washed dishes, once in a while – helped to cook meals.

With their 'charity business', Clarice, William and little Davy got by exactly as the support program intended: dirt-poor, but never quite hungry. A fine balance of generosity and scarcity, a Social Optimum, as it was now called by the Welfare bureaucrats: starving military veterans would be unfair and cruel, but having them too rich – immoral and uneconomical.

Upon his initial training in Fort Worth boot camp, William was deployed to Venezuela, in which the United States guarded remaining operational oilfields against the resurgence groups. On the fourth month of his deployment, the inexperienced engineer triggered a booby trap on a wellhead. His bulletproof vest and helmet helped a little.

William ended up on a floating hospital docked in Caracas – modified from a former cruise liner USNS Santa Lucia, christened in the military the Dumpster-of-Caribbean. Much like the World War I hospitals: radical surgeries, zero antibiotics, and almost no rehab. The expensive modern methods were reserved to other hospitals, for lucky soldiers with light injuries, – to be reused at the battlefield. And the Dumpster provided a Social Optimum for the rest: those with no chance to return to active duty, and thus an unwanted burden for the Army. Wasting scarce medical resources on the useless cripples-in-the-making? Immoral and uneconomical! The United States afforded no such opulence.

William later told Mark how he begged the medics to save his left arm, but always-busy and chronically sleep-deprived Dumpster personnel did not listen. In the triage room, one doctor told the wounded engineer to shut up and get ready to live the rest of his life without both arms. William asked what quality of life it supposed to be. A reply followed: private, your damn booby trap is not my fault, and your damn quality of life just today did not make into our priority list. Goddammit!

"This is what we call a radical procedure, soldier. You might even like it this way," the military surgeon assured William ninety minutes later. "Your stitches out in a week, and you're good to go. Believe me, nobody of my amputees had ever complained!"

Then, despite further protests, the surgeon amputated both William's arms, leaving only a five-inch stump. On the right, the damaged eyeball was removed completely; the less mangled left eye – cleansed, plastered, and left to resolve by itself. A month later, William discovered the eye remnants were not entirely useless and could distinguish between light and darkness. As the second doctor predicted, William was not too upset about the drastic surgery. He learned the floating hospital's single operation theater handled no less than twenty life-saving procedures a day. Every extra minute spent on him by the surgeon might cost somebody's life. Besides, the nurses explained William that without antibiotics and other expensive drugs his mangled arms had a snowball-chance-in-hell anyway.

Still on board the ship, William received so-called Dumpster-pack: a second-hand military uniform, a Purple Heart, and his honorable discharge papers. Three weeks later, the Dumpster-of-Caribbean crossed the sea and offloaded six hundred brand-new war amputees in Galveston.

Despite his horrific injuries, William adjusted amazingly well, and it would not be possible without Clarice. Mark remembered how she phoned him at work. "William just called!" She fired, "from a hospital ship! Santa Lucia!"

"From a hospital ship? I hope – nothing serious?"

"He is fine! His surgery went all-right. Both arms are gone."

"What? Clarice! Gone? What do you mean?"

"He said: both arms are gone. Amputated!"

"Amputated? Shit! I am sorry, Clarice..."

"Why 'shit'? It's wonderful!" Clarice did not sound sad or even concerned, "My Billy will be home! Alive! Oh, Mark! I'm so happy!"

"But – the arms?" Mark clenched his fist. What a freaking dummy I have for a daughter-in-law! Happy her husband became a cripple!

"The arms – no big deal. I saw electronic arms – on TV! William can get a pair."

Eighteen days later, she received an SMS: the Santa Lucia arrives at noon tomorrow, relatives may come and collect the 'vets.' Through the end of the Twentieth Century, 'vet' almost universally meant 'animal doctor.' After all, animal clinics one found at every shopping mall, while 'veteran' had historical connotations, like those Vietnam War veterans, or even more distant: Les Invalides from Napoleonic Wars. Everybody was so politically-correct before the Meltdown! You should not call someone 'crippled' or 'handicapped,' but had to say: 'mobility-challenged.' A blind person should be called 'perception-impaired,' and an imbecile child – 'differently-able.' As the little wars progressed, filling filthy back-alleys in dilapidated cities with armless and legless young men in tattered uniforms, 'vet' crept into street talk, meaning 'disabled veteran' or 'war amputee.' A black joke went around: 'vet' is an abbreviation of 'soldier.'

Clarice told her Galveston story several times since. The motor-bus service between Sheldon-Res and Galveston still ran that year, but the last remaining bus approached the end of its useful life. On the day of her trip, Clarice got unlucky: the motor-bus stopped several times, and the driver had to fix something in the engine. They arrived to Galveston two hours past the schedule.

"I ran to the port like mad," Clarice recalled: "At Wharf Street, – holy crap! Every bar – full of vets on crutches! Like, everybody in the city missing a leg! So here I am, standing at the jetty. A woman comes along, dressed in scrubs, probably a nurse. Says: looking for someone, young lady? I started: how can I find a patient? William Pendergrass? And she: oh, who the hell would remember them by full names! You're a bit late, darling. The boys are all gone. Oh shit! Why did I take the goddamn motor-bus? Ponies are way more reliable."

"And the nurse asked: is he ambulating? – Ambu-what? – Can he walk on crutches? – Why on crutches? His legs are OK. They cut his arms off! And she said: both arms? Oh dear! How many did we have this time: six or seven? Poor boys! Why don't you check at the bus terminal? Or – in the bars? Everybody go get drunk right after crossing. We're a dry ship!"

"I said: but wait, where can he go? He has no eyes! And she says: no arms and blind? What's the name, again? William, you said? So it must be Billy, from C-deck, starboard side, aft. A basket case! I asked: why? And she: as you heard, darling. A basket case – totally useless. Who are you to him: a sister? – A wife!"

"So she said: it's good you've missed him! If I were you, darling, I would think twice before taking your husband home. I said: what the hell are you talking about? And she: well, you must consider. Free medical advice for you: go home, and let us send your husband straight to New Hope. It's... not too bad... He will understand. Give him few months to settle in and get used to his condition. Then – arrange a divorce! If you're afraid of meeting him – send the divorce papers by mail."

"Exactly what she told me! A divorce! By mail! So I said: no institution, and no divorce! And stop calling my William a basket case! My husband will be fine! Better than anybody else! My son Davy will not miss his Dad! I don't want to be rude, ma'am, but please cut the bullshit and show me where my husband may be! So she nodded and said: see that storage shack at the end of seawall? Go look around. And all the best to you, young lady. Your husband is a very lucky man..."

"Suddenly, I saw tears in her eyes! What a funny job to be a nurse on the goddamn Santa Lucia!"

The rest of the Galveston arrival story came from William: "In our cabin at C-deck, – ten guys. Eight with no leg, one with no arm, plus whatever remained of me! The boys said: no worries, buddy, we take care of you in the port. Yeah, right! The Dumpster docked, and – puff! Everybody disappeared in seconds. Well, they had a good excuse. The poor bastards started talking girls and beer five days before the arrival!"

"An orderly guided me to the jetty. Wait here! I asked: wait? For what? – Ya bus is late. Will be he'a in fifty minutes. – What bus? – The New Hope bus! They will take ya to an 'stitution! I said: what if I don't want to? And he: up to ya, soldier. Ya have ya discharge papers – may go anyplace ya like! I thought: oh shit. What do I do now? Then, out of nowhere: private Pendergrass! You! Why are you standing there? Get your ass here – now! Ris impersonated a drill sergeant type. Of course, I recognized her voice: she's no good at barking commands."

Clarice always treated William as if nothing had happened. She pulled up his pants or straightened his T-shirt as naturally as fixing her own clothes. If William lost his way on the street, she pushed her husband in right direction, always with a laughter and a light kiss to the cheek. Their meal times became a game of sorts, full of mutual kissing and petting, and even visiting a latrine was always fun!

The very last part of the Galveston story William entrusted only to his brother Mike, but the latter never kept such secrets for himself, and soon Mary and Mark received full report. After meeting William, Clarice could not hold it a second longer, so they had sex while waiting for the Sheldon-Res omnibus. For the lack of better venue, the adventure took place in a public latrine behind the Galveston bus terminal! They wanted more and repeated it twice before arriving to Sheldon-Res, – both times at the roadside service stations, while the omnibus drivers changed its horses.

With such a love-making intensity, the desired result came three weeks after the William's homecoming. Clarice proudly told the family first, and then all the neighbors, that she was 'delayed, all by the plan.' She never specified what the plan might be, but Mark suspected his daughter-in-law intended to get pregnant and pup babies as fast as physiologically possible.

It surely helped Clarice was born simple-minded and super-optimistic. She diligently pursued every opportunity, and no failure made her sad. Right after William's return, she decided his left eye should be fixed. If Billy had better vision, she kept saying, he might qualify for prosthetic arms. Never mind the Pentagon rejected his application; they would find a non-government charity! With all the stuff he learned on the Dumpster, William was reluctant, but finally agreed to visit a nearby ophthalmologist.

Not something I can help you with, the old doctor stated, but Clarice wanted a second opinion. The second opinion followed, then the third, the fourth, and the fifth. She ran out of doctors in the closest neighborhoods, so two grueling omnibus trips to the downtown were made – with the same result.

Then, she continued her search by e-mails. The eye photographs taken with a smart phone were no good, and she borrowed a proper camera. Six weeks and many thousand dollars later, the final verdict was established. The surgery was theoretically possible, but since the Meltdown only two hospitals in the United States still performed such procedures. The doctors calculated a price tag at around twenty million dollars, and with no insurance William had no way to raise such a sum. Besides the medical bills, the operation required a one-year trip to the North, with all associated dangers and expenses. With probability of success – twenty percent! Or less.

Any other person would be a total wreck after learning all these hard facts, but not Clarice. Never mind, she said, and moved on – quite happily. The smile was always on her face, and Mark never heard a word of complaining.

After a short news break (Mark spotted Natalie's serious face in the highlights), Back to the Future II continued. So astonishing, how well Hollywood guessed the life in 2015. The year before the Meltdown. Fancy electronic devices with huge screens, computers, and robots everywhere, precisely like in the movie. Posh, comfortable, worry-free, convenient lifestyle. OK, we had no flying cars in 2015, but apart from that, the movie makers were not too far off... But surely, Steven Spielberg and Rob Zemeckis could not imagine in 2030 the Americans would grow their own veggies and walk a mile to fetch water from the lake!

After the Meltdown... Was it worse than the movie time, 1985, three years after Mark was born? Naturally, Hollywood should not be trusted with historical accuracy. Oh, we were flying to the Moon back then... Wait a moment. The Apollo Program ran even earlier, in the late sixties and early seventies! By 1985, the United States had abandoned the Moon idea, and started building Space Shuttles. Then she took after the Soviets to build the International Space Station. Which, in turn, was abandoned in 2016 and ditched in Indonesian jungles six years later. The seventies and the eighties were pretty nice...

OK, if not fifty, did they live better or worse one hundred years ago, in 1930? Mark learned the Twentieth Century history from serious books, not from make-believe Hollywood movies! The Great Depression came, and times were rather rough. But the books said the Depression did not look half as bad as the Meltdown had been so far, and the crisis was over in less than ten years. It had been fourteen since the Meltdown began. Could the Meltdown end too, just taking a bit longer? Their family did much better than most: a good house in a healthy neighborhood, in which there were no gangs, and all the kids attended schools. Too bad William lost his arms, but Michael now had right to skip war-zone deployments. The exemptions were given to those who had a seriously disabled vet in the family... If not Mary and Mark, their children might see the end of the Meltdown era.

Mark tried to stop his racing mind: must have a good sleep now. The address checks tomorrow... He wished goodnight to William and Clarice, and went upstairs, stumbling his way in a pitch-dark corridor. In the bedroom, Mary moaned in her sleep. Mark did not bother checking his telephone alarm clock: most of the family would be awake at five anyway, plenty of time for a ride to the Station. He climbed under a mosquito net, and three minutes later, was fast asleep.

# Chapter 3

Mark woke up from movement in the bedroom: Mary piled old styrofoam boxes on the windowsill, a somewhat futile procedure for keeping rooms cool through the day. Apart from William, Clarice, and little Davy, who would start a bit later, the rest of the family already awoke. The three younger kids: Samantha, Pamela, and Patrick, sat at the kitchen table, munching on their breakfast. In the built-in garage, Michael loaded his cargo tricycle with empty plastic jerrycans. Before the school, the kids had to make a daily run to the Reservoir to fetch fifty gallons of water, or there would be no warm shower in the evening. Mark's father-in-law, David-senior, had finished breakfast and went to the back deck, smoking his morning pipe.

Mark fixed a piece of bread with lard spread and poured acorn coffee. The real coffee no longer imported, they had to save their small stash for special occasions. While finishing breakfast, Mark checked his telephone. There had been no updates. Fifteen minutes later, he was on his police bike, pedaling towards Beaumont Highway in cool morning air.

Small shops and food stalls along the highway remained mostly closed, but the traffic started picking up: bikes and cargo tricycles, and many people – on foot. Now nobody lived farther than ten miles from work, and ten miles would mean an hour and a half of commute, – if one was lucky to have a push-bike. Despite the early hours, there were many school-age children on the road. Most carried water or firewood, helping with the daily chores, the same way as Mark's kids had to do. He overtook a gang of teens, all barefoot, and with straw hats. By their ragged clothes and the early time, they targeted to a labor market, Day-Pay, as the locals called it, across Beaumont Highway from McCarty Road Landfill.

Unlike in the northern States, unemployment in Houston was low: less than fifteen percent. Factories still operated, producing weapons, uniforms, and ammo for the endless wars. Fifty thousand private businesses were registered, although a typical enterprise counted less than ten employees. Those who engaged in 'backyard agriculture,' farming veggies or tending chickens – were considered self-employed, as well as licensed medics and licensed prostitutes. The statistics would be perfect if not for ever-growing child labor. The official point of view was that underage workers stole jobs from the adults.

Few years ago, Mark participated in multiple raids to Day-Pay. The authorities tried to weed out illegal child labor and enforce the new law: no full-time employment before the age of fourteen. To be frank, the task was impossible. Hungry kids were everywhere, looking for jobs. The Police did not care about the workers' age: teens at Day-Pay carried no IDs, and uniformly said they were fourteen. After all, with undernourishment too common, some fourteen-year-old kids looked as if they were eleven. The main raids' target was child slavery.

To Mark, the entire Day-Pay looked a lot like a medieval slave market, taken from a fantasy novel and planted into the present day Texas. Thousands of people – sitting on bare ground, each holding, like a price tag, a small piece of cardboard with the desired day wage. These cardboard tags were called 'day-pays,' hence the market's name. The potential employers wandered between workers, selecting the ones they liked, negotiating employment conditions and remunerations. Few were hired for several months or even permanently, but most ended up with a week or two worth of work, or more often than not – for just one or two days.

The market had dedicated rows for qualified and semi-qualified labor: carpenters, brick-layers, fixers, and such. These were predominantly mature men, and somewhat better dressed. Few displayed their tool kits, advertising professional skills. Next, the rows for agricultural workers. Here the majority were women, every fourth accompanied by preschool kids: an overwhelming display of poverty, but nothing particularly illegal.

The largest portion of the market was occupied with Wanna-Any-Job category, and here the real slave trade was going on. Criminal rings, so-called rag barons, supplied little boys and girls for the Landfill and garbage processing shops. Often as young as five, for their hard and dangerous jobs poor kids received nothing but little food, while their handlers pocketed all the wages. By any definition, the rag barons were an organized crime, so the FBI was involved in the Police operations.

During a raid three years ago, Mark stopped a young woman, pregnant, and with a baby in her arms, accompanied by three girls, aged between seven and ten, and skinny to an extreme.

The woman held a piece of cardboard: $550. About two times an average garbage processing adult worker would get per day. Pregnant women here seldom asked for more than $200, and a pregnant-with-a-baby type would never be called even if she asked for $150. The girls looked experienced rag-pickers. One had a thick rubber glove sticking out of her pocket. These three girls could be an adequate match for two adults, hence the price... Mark flashed his badge, and asked for IDs. No surprise, there were none.

"These three girls," Mark asked, "are they with you, Madam?"

"Yessir! I'm look'n for work," now the woman reversed her day-pay, and the other side appropriately read: $135. "The girls're my nieces. They have a school break, so I let 'em come here wim'me. Nobody home to leave 'em with, sir..."

"Yes, yes, and I'm Rudolph the Reindeer, with my red nose, and straight from the North Pole!" Mark felt enraged listening to such a shameless lie. "I have five kids myself! The school break you're talking about... It's not due in two bloody weeks!" He pointed to the oldest girl, "what's your name, young lady?"

"Jasmine, sir," she replied readily.

"How old are you, Jasmine?"

"Ten!"

"What school are you in?"

"The Creek Side! I'm in the fifth grade!"

The Creek Side. One well-rehearsed story. The school thirty miles away, conveniently preventing any local policemen to have their kids in it. He could ask for the teachers' names, and then phone the school. But to make such a call, he would have to wait till nine or even ten, and the Day-Pay would be closing before nine...

"Listen," Mark tried to reason with the woman. Perhaps, she was not in the rag barons. Just another unlucky young mother with an unexpected pregnancy, trying to send her desperate nieces to the Landfill. "Let's say, the girls are not in school, but rather scavenging at the McCarty Road, aren't they? It's off-the-record. You don't need to tell me anything, just nod..."

The woman nodded, quietly confirming Mark's assumption.

"They should not work at the 'Fill at this age, don't you understand? It's bloody dangerous. There are needles, dead bodies, chemicals, old batteries, God only knows..."

"Nos'sir, 'em aren't work'n at McCarty! As I said, their school's on quarantine for three weeks! Nobody home..." She started the rehearsed pitch again, but applied a little correction about the school break.

After procrastination, Mark let them go. The FBI could not arrest good third of the labor market and bring them for further questioning! He regretted his decision four months later, while participating in yet another raid to the Day-Pay. He spotted the same skinny girl, but now she was on her own. She had the same baggy cut-off jeans and oversized shirt as two months ago, only now her clothes had multiple holes, apparently eaten by acid. Her face and both hands were covered in a constellation of open sores, and her right eye – all white from a chemical burn. She held a day-pay: $30. Thirty bucks for a full day of hard work – would not be enough to buy a sandwich for lunch. Really, who would want an injured rag-picker?

"Jasmine?" he called, approaching.

"Yessir..." she recognized him instantly and corrected herself: "No, sir. My name is... Amelia! Amelia Khan!"

"I have seen you before, four months ago. Back then, you called yourself Jasmine, and said you're at school."

"Must be a mist-under-standing. I didn't see you. No, sir. Also, I'm not at school. I'm fourteen, and I can work. Un-rest-trick-tied!" The girl struggled through the difficult legal term.

"What happened to your eye... 'Amelia'?"

"A battery made a little ka-boom! Shit happens... Sorry! I mean: at the 'Fill, bad things... happen. Sometimes... But I'm OK now."

"Were you rag-picking at the Landfill?"

A proud smile: "I'm no maggot, sir! I'm a spec'list!"

"A specialist?"

"Yessir! I'm a battery spec'list! Battery recycling, you know?"

"Battery recycling? What shop was it, exactly?"

"I... I have no re-coil-lection. I mean: I don't remember!"

She understood the Day-Pay rules too well: if an accident happens, do not ever point to the employer, or nobody will hire you again. Mark insisted that Jasmine-Amelia, – or whatever her real name, – saw the Police medic, who also participated in the raid. An hour later, the girl came to say thanks. The bigger sores were plastered. She clenched a small bottle of Betadine the medic gave her to take care of the wounds, and looked a bit happier.

The same evening, Mark told the story of Jasmine-Amelia at home.

"Now I'm positive that woman, four months ago, was in the rag-baron ring," he concluded. "She said the girls were her nieces. Nieces, my ass! They didn't even look alike!"

"Take it easy, darling," Mary said, "you can't catch them all."

"Yet, if I arrested that bitch, the poor girl would not lose her eye," Mark insisted.

"It's perverted logic, Dad," Michael said, "you automatically assumed that if you had removed the handler, the girls would stop working at our shit-pile."

Back then, Mike already dropped from school and started working at the Landfill. Granted, his job remained strictly legal, – he was almost fifteen at the time. Unlike Jasmine, he did not need to endure the Day-Pay to get himself hired. Mark's neighbor expanded his synthetic gasoline business and offered Mike a permanent job. Mark and Mary did not complain much about Mike leaving school. Clever but disorganized, Mike did not study. The 'Fill made better of him. He became more responsible and finally began reading his textbooks. While in school, he hated Chemistry, but now discussed solvents, optimal temperature regimes, and product yields like a real engineer.

"You have a point, Mike. The girls would not stop working, arrest or no arrest," Mark agreed. No need to torture yourself. Whatever he had done, the girl would still be working with the garbage and still could be hurt.

"This is just statistics, Dad," Mike said. "Nobody can stop what they're doing, can they? Take our plant. In each bomb, we got to put one-point-three ton of plastic scrap every day! If we stop, the thing stops. So we don't give shit..."

"Mike!" Mary banged her hand on the kitchen top. "I don't like your 'Fill language! It's inappropriate!"

Mike smiled apologetically and continued: "OK, OK. So we don't – want to know, who picks the scrap, as soon as the scrap keeps coming. Twenty thousand people go to work every day. Nobody is perfect. Anybody can make a stupid, simple mistake. Accidents will happen – sooner or later. On the 'Fill, shit... Sorry, Mom! Stuff happens two or three times a day. If not with your Jasmine, or Amelia, whoever, it must happen to some other girl. Large numbers. A law of mathematics."

"Hey, who is talking mathematics!" Mary said, "your highest achievement last year was between D and D-plus, if I remember correctly."

"As a matter of fact, I had a C-plus. Once!" Mike replied. Then, admitted: "I copied all the answers from Krystal. She boasted to be OK in math."

"Krystal? Was she before or after Ashley?"

"Before Ashley."

"And what was Krystal's grade for that test?" Mark asked, smiling. Krystal was Mike's third girlfriend, but she did not last, the same as two girls before her, and an unbeknownst number of girls after.

"She also got a C-plus. I'm very good at copying... Anyway, back to the 'Fill business. If I were you, Dad, I wouldn't worry about Jasmine at all. She's probably better off after her accident than before."

"How come?"

"Simple. The bad news: she lost one eye. But her second eye is perfectly fine, so no big deal. Now, the good news: it looks like the rag barons kicked her out. Now she can find a decent job, to make money for herself and not for fake 'uncles' and 'aunties.' If she didn't get the acid burn – well. She would still be a slave, for another three or four years. Working hard for little food and nothing else, or even dying from a 'Fill accident or their regular prophylactic beatings! Would it be any better than a little acid burn?"

...Mark pulled into the Station's parking lot few minutes past six. Benito sat outside, smoking his pipe and shuffling through the last day reports.

"Morning, Mark," Ben waved his fingers in the air, "so today I come to the Station, and: surprise, surprise! The on-duty deputy tells me that yesterday the FBI dude brought two stiffs in here! Brilliant! Just freaking brilliant! The deputy complained. He said, the emergency generator ran all night and interfered with his research."

"What research?"

"Deputy Woxman is trying to prove Albert Einstein wrong. He believes information can travel faster than the speed of light."

"I do remember Einstein started as a patent office clerk, but I didn't know our Station deputies work in theoretical physics."

"Well, it's not theoretical. Woxman is already in his experimental phase. Every time our deputy is on-duty, he proves you can download all the new porno from the Internet before it's done uploading on the other end!"

Mark laughed. Unlike Mark's William, Ben Ferelli excelled at making jokes, even if his humor – on the dirty side.

"OK, Ben. You got me once again! But about the bodies... There were no relatives. We only got a positive ID on the male. He is – from bloody New York! What do I suppose to do with the corpses?"

"I don't know, Mark. Take them home, for instance! Other people take their job home, why the FBI can't?"

"The rules, Major, the rules. The bodies are confidential material, for a federal case. We have no right taking confidential stuff, – or should I say: 'confidential stiff?' – home. Must be kept locked on premises."

"Besides the jokes, I support your decision, Mark. I will even allow the CSIs to do a proper body processing and an autopsy. They need practice, right? I made the necessary calls. As soon as my friend Charlie gets his lazy, fat ass into his office, he will sign you all the paperwork."

Ben referred to the Justice of Peace, the Honorable Charles Steiner, whose office resided across the road from the Station. "Your papers are done too. Yours truly made Deputy Woxman to practice handwriting this early morning. For all his experimental research, he has to give something back to his Station! You only need to scribble your initials, and off-you-go."

"Gee, thanks, Ben! It's wonderful you look after your poor FBI relatives."

"But Mark! These bodies have to be out of my fridge today. On your stiffs, we wasted our monthly limit of diesel. The next murder you may be investigating on your damn bike!"

"If we can't locate the relatives today, I will pay a visit to my friend in the Salvation Way Center. The male victim is an USACE vet, so the charity funerals should not be a problem."

"Fine with me, dude..."

Reassured in such way, Mark went to his office. He quickly synchronized his phone with the laptop and added yet another pin to the map on the wall behind his desk. Now the map had sixteen color dots on it. Besides the map, there were no usual crime scene photographs or paper notes on the walls. Mark preferred to keep all information in his laptop. He frequently said that saving printer paper was his main priority, true to a degree. The real reason – he was paranoid about information leaks. Somebody in the Police remained too close to the media. Besides, the majority of the Sheldon Butcher case photographs were too gruesome to be posted on the walls. Even in the FBI office.

Sergeant Alex Zuiko and CSI Natalie Gardener walked into Mark's door at 6:20. Together, they quickly discussed the things to be done today. Natalie would source the second CSI and do the bodies' processing, while Alex and Mark would start the potential witnesses and relatives search.

Ten minutes later, Mark and Alex were on their bikes, pedaling towards the Garret Road Police Beat.

It caused a major controversy ten years ago, but by now the consensus in Houston had been that the Police Localization program was simply the best idea implemented by the Harris County Sheriff's Office. They disbanded both the HPD and the Highway Patrol. After the Meltdown cars became rare, and the Highway Patrol hardly had anything to look after. The entire county, including Houston incorporated areas, was divided into manageable districts, no larger than seventy square miles, and each district got an independent Station. Then, Sheriff confiscated few hundred bankrupt businesses here and there – at that time, there were still plenty to choose from, and converted them into those Police Beats.

The setup was basic, but efficient: a single-room office, some with a tiny jail at the back, and two to four officers, strictly local, so they knew everything and everybody in the neighborhoods. Each beat covered no more than two square miles, and cops could reach every place on-foot or on a bicycle in reasonable time.

As with any other post-Meltdown arrangements, there were disadvantages in spreading officers so thin, but the benefits far outweighed. Some cities delayed with the localized police force and continued to use their traditional patrol car approach. After several years, they ended up with vast areas, which saw a policeman once a year or no police at all. In Los Angeles, gangs declared a good chunk of the southern suburbs a 'Police-free zone.' See a cop – kill the cop. Alas, the LAPD did nothing and accepted the new reality.

# Chapter 4

Deputy Kim waited at the Beat office, but Tan was absent. Early in the morning, both policemen were summoned to a street fight, and now Tan collected the witness statements. The fight originator, an Indomerican man twenty-something of age, in torn shirt, with a black eye and bloodied nose, was locked behind the bars at the far corner.

Mark looked at his watch. "It seems, you gents can't join us today."

"No, sir, we'll be fine. The man didn't do much. Vegetable theft, believe it or not..." Kim replied, passing Mark a one-page incident report. "Actually, I had to bring him into the Beat for his own protection sake. If Tan and I left the poor bastard with those angry Chinamericans, they would resolve to a far-eastern cruelty. A death by thousand cuts, a pond full of crocodiles... We can release the man by now, and go about our serial killer business."

"Let us play this a bit," Alex suggested. "Can you bring the man here? Tell him the FBI came to see him."

Deputy went to unlock the cage.

"Mister Sharma? I am Sergeant Investigator Zuiko; and this is Special Agent-in-Charge Pendergrass, from the F.B.I.," Alex introduced them, heavily stressing every letter in the 'FBI' part. Mark mentioned how masterfully Sarge had avoided his own association not with the Bureau, but the Harris County Police. "Tell us. What happened this morning?"

"Nothing, sir. I'm living in tee north of tee Slum. I'm taking a shortcut like this every morning. Tee other men. They jumped on mee. I'm making nothing wrong," the man spoke in heavy Indian accent.

"Did the Deputy here – read your Miranda warning, Mister Sharma?" Alex asked with blunt expression. The man nodded. "Thus, you must understand you have the right to remain silent, correct?" The man nodded again. "But... Do you think this makes it legal for you to lie in front of the FBI?"

Sarge sounded a high-profile prosecutor from a movie. "No, Mister Sharma, this does not give you the right to lie! Do you think the FBI would come here for no reason? No, sir! The uninterrupted food supply is a matter of national security. That what it is, Mister Sharma. Now, tell the jury what happened – really..."

Now the man was even more scared.

"As I said, a shortcut every morning. About a week ago, I picked a couple of carrots from tee veggie bed. Just two. Eat them on tee way. So I started picking one or two every morning. I thought, they have so much carrot, no harm if I take one or two. Today, I picked jus' one carrot, sir. And – they jumped on mee!"

"They – do you mean: the veggie owners, correct?"

"Correct, sir."

"Did you resist the arrest, Mister Sharma?"

"No, sir. Tee Deputy here – he took mee to tee beat."

"Deputy Kim! Did or did not the defendant... I mean: the suspect, resist the arrest?"

"No, sir! I mean: yes, sir! Oops, it's not right either... I confirm, Your Honor: the suspect did not resist the arrest..."

"OK, I believe the case is crystal-clear: theft and trespassing. Multiple offenses! Two years in a labor camp, I reckon. But to the suspect's defense – he cooperated with the Police, so the Judge may reduce to just one year," Alex stated, as if asking Mark's opinion. "Shall we do the paperwork and bring the case to the prosecution, Special Agent?"

Mark shook his head. He applied all his effort not to applaud over the comic 'Court at Law' scene.

Alex turned to the man again, and spoke in determined hushed voice, as if switching roles to the defendant's attorney instead of the state prosecutor: "But... Tell me now... I must know this to help you... Just two carrots, or – say, two pounds a day?"

"No, sir, I swear. One or two carrots! We've no food at home!"

"I believe you," Sarge concluded, "we let you go this time. But if we learn you're collecting more carrots from your neighbors, it will be up to the District Attorney, understand?"

After the door slammed behind hurriedly departing Mr. Sharma, the officers had a good laugh. So done with the morning case, Deputy Kim locked the Beat. The note at the door stated: On patrol. Wait here or call 911 if urgent. They cycled at slow pace along Garret Road. Soon later, Alex waved to Mark and Kim and turned to a bike trail to rendezvous with Deputy Tan at the Chinamerican wards.

The Garret Road Slum, or GRS for short, was a late development. Unlike the slums, which evolved from the former suburbs, this had few proper roads. The transportation network consisted of convoluted dirt paths. There were small shacks built with anything imaginable: from old tires to plastic film and cartons. Endless rows of vegetable patches occupied the rest of the land. Several Amerasian women, barefoot and with conical straw hats, carried buckets of water on long shoulder poles, the trail became too narrow to pass safely. Mark and Kim got off the bikes.

The entire scene looked like a photograph from the Vietnam War. Mark's father-in-law had several albums of such old photographs – chem photos, as everybody called them now. Most photos were black-and-white, and only few – with unnaturally bright colors. Kodachrome-X, Mark suddenly remembered the foreign-sounding trademark name; David mentioned it on several occasions. He said, the photos did not come on the screen instantly, but had to be 'developed' and printed in a special chemical lab. Cameras had no screens at all, and you could only guess if the pictures were any good until the lab did its processing magic. Unbelievable, how much perseverance one needed to make photos back then.

David was in the Air Force, and deployed in Vietnam from 1970 to 1972. He served as a ground mechanic, and avoided most of the dangers. An avid photographer since teen years, he snapped thousands of pictures: endless photos of his friends, on the airfields, in front of fuel trucks, cargo planes, or Huey helicopters. Many photos depicted the daily life in Saigon: market stalls, racing pedicab drivers, female students in long white dresses, beggar boys playing in front of a fancy cafe, and so on. The country-side: rice paddies and women in black pajamas and conical hats. Here in the Slum, the resemblance was exceptionally striking.

Was America now living the same lifestyle as Vietnam sixty years ago? The good thing, there had been no war in the United States. David's albums had few photos with the evidence of the brutal war, which burned in Indochina for good twenty-five years. A carcass of a crashed helicopter in the jungles...

Lucky, America suffered no war at home. They turned the corner, and reality sharply contradicted Mark's conclusion: a stripped carcass of military Hercules protruded from emerald rice paddies. Mark remembered seeing it on the SRTV news. Few years ago, this plane had a critical failure upon a takeoff and crashed into the slum, ending lives of six military personnel and thirty slum dwellers. The remnants of the plane now became home for several families. On the footpath, an Amerasian man in his late twenties struggled on a single crutch, accompanied by little semi-naked girl, probably his daughter. The cripple had a civilian shirt, but his military-issue pants and sunglasses told the officers the man was a recent vet. Perhaps, the war had not been on the American soil yet, but the slum life was not very different from one in Vietnam back in the seventies!

Kim asked the man how to locate the Hobsons' dwelling. The vet explained, drawing an imaginary map with his finger over the palm of the other hand. The little girl watched the conversation while sucking her thumb.

Another striking similarity with the Vietnam War. One photo in the albums Mark remembered: a Vietnamese Military Police chatting with a disabled ex-soldier, with two semi-naked kids watching. The cripple from that picture also had his leg stump on the crutch handle, and one kid also sucked his thumb... Kim nodded, and the man continued crutching along the footpath. Passing Mark, he mumbled: "How-r-you, sir?" The girl waved her hand and said "Hullo." Interesting, what the Vietnamese crippled ex-soldier and those kids from the photograph told American GIs during the War?

"Our first address," Deputy pointed. "On that little path, the second right. Only, the vet didn't recall anybody with an artificial leg in that family..."

"Let check them anyway, hence we are here," Mark said. A long day was ahead, but Major Ferelli would never give a car for the investigation work. Besides, a car was pretty useless in this slum, with its narrow dirt paths instead of roads.

They pushed their bikes along the trail for another five minutes, meeting yet another group of women with water buckets on shoulder poles. The shack, in which 'these Hobsons' lived, resembled a pile of recycled furniture and chipboard. An elderly woman sat at the porch, cleaning veggies.

Mark pulled out his badge. The old lady introduced herself as Mrs. Hobson and invited the officers in. A piece of battered plastic film substituted for the shack door. Inside, an old sofa and a triple bunk bed occupied almost all the room. Mark guessed, no less than six or seven people lived here – on forty-five square feet. As foretold, the first address produced nothing. The family originated not from New York, but from Seattle, and moved to Houston in 2028. The old lady's grandson served currently in the Army, but, thanks God, at the border between Canada and Republique Quebecois, in the UN Peacekeeping Corps. A relatively safe assignment: the real war between the break-away Quebec and the rest of Canada had ended four years ago in a weary stalemate. No, they were the only Hobsons here, and no, none of their relatives was one-legged, thanks God again...

They bid goodbye to talkative Mrs. Hobson and continued on their bikes towards the slum's north, in which the database gave another possible hit for Hobsons. Here the population was predominantly Indomerican, and the shacks stood denser. Women carried water not on shoulder poles, but on their heads. There were visibly more school-age children around.

"The Amerasians send their kids to school, no matter what," Deputy commented. He lived in the Koreamerican community, which concentrated at the western side of the Slum. "The Asians work hard. These Indian people are not so. Lazy bastards. See, how many children miss school? Their veggies are no comparison to ours. No bloody wonder, our late Mister Sharma stole those stupid carrots from the Chinamen!"

"I don't think the people are lazy, Kim," Mark disagreed, "there are just too many. The land is failing."

Soil on some vegetable patches resembled useless silty dust. The Presidential program, Sustainability Through Horticulture, advertised so much ten years ago, did not work too well. Without chemical fertilizers and pesticides, this patch of land could supply food for limited number of people, – clearly way less than the local population. The Indomerican Slum was a miniature copy of India herself. Eleven years ago, the CNN news had it every evening: the water and food crisis in South Asia...

The fate of India was closed immediately after the Meltdown, as the software industry lost its momentum. Apple went bankrupt and was bought, with all the debts, by Microsoft for just one dollar. The Microsoft itself soon became a charity: few hundred software engineers in Vermont and Berkeley, surviving on Presidential grants to support the remaining operating systems. The collapse of banks, consumer electronics companies, and airlines followed.

The Indian make-believe 'middle-class' simply ended overnight: all these programmers, outsourcing accountants, and call center operators – were not needed anymore. After the middle-class jobs, all other more-or-less lucrative occupations had disappeared: tourist attractions, hotels and for-profit beaches, souvenir-making and souvenir-selling, even the tailor shops.

Four hundred million desperate people fled from dysfunctional cities to the countryside. It did not help a bit. Impoverished villagers did not have enough land, enough water, and enough food for all. The lucky ones got themselves a fishing boat and sailed all over the place: from Australia to Myanmar and Madagascar, and even to the United States. The rest... Nobody was sure what this crisis ended with, – the news just stopped coming. Some speculated there should be several million survivors; few guessed the remaining India's population at fifty to eighty million. But everybody uniformly agreed the survivors lived in Stone Age by now...

Soon Kim and Mark located their second database hit: a mix family with a Caucasian husband and an Indomerican wife, plus five kids. At the front of their tiny shack, a plywood shelf with several pairs of cheap rubber sandals indicated the owner's business. The cobbler himself was at work: cutting an old car tire to make soles for yet another pair of flip-flops. Fittingly to the common proverb, not only the cobbler's children, but the entire family – had no shoes whatsoever. Two older kids, about six and seven, dressed in stained shorts, helped their father by holding tools and offering free advice. Three other boys, aged between two and five, did not belong to the workforce yet: completely naked, they built a castle in the road dust. Their mom cooked something conspicuous in an old blackened pot set on top of four bricks. The fuel between the bricks looked like dried cow dung.

Kim approached the cobbler. "How is the business, Mister Hobson?"

The man spoke with juicy southern accent. "Good morning to y'all. Business – as usual. Who the hell would come for a pair of 'flops in April? The display's just for fun. My sons enjoy setting and packing the shelf. I don't mind. I'd say, they should learn how to run a proper shop, what'd y'all think?"

Mark also doubted the display was needed. Evidently, Mr. Hobson worked by the order, or sent his production for sale in the better-off neighborhoods. Here, in the Indomerican community, hardly one person out of ten had sandals or 'flops on.

The cobbler turned to Mark. "And ya, sir? Also with the Police?"

"The FBI," Mark said.

The man whistled. "The FBI! Ya must be a rich man. Don't ya need a pair of tire sandals? At home? My quality's good, and my prices are – excellent! I give ya a discount! For a pair of sandals – jus' five thousand dollars. Ya'll can't find 'em any cheaper..."

Mark glanced at the shelf: the sandals were of the common ugly type. "Do you have children's sizes in stock, sir?" he asked. Not like Mark wanted to purchase something right now: his kids all had a pair, and he did not have five thousand dollars in his pocket. The answer being rather predictable, he hoped to cut the sales pitch in polite way.

"Children's sizes? For ya' kids? Ya' a rich man, as I jus' said! Nos'sir. Not in stock. But for ya, I can do by the order. The small sizes go five hundred cheaper: I sell school sandals for forty-five hundred! Ya'd like to order now?"

"No, not today. I don't remember the kids' sizes, anyway. This is more like my spouse's responsibility," Mark lied. The trick worked. In these slums, shoes for children were an exuberant luxury, only 'rich' people could afford.

"We wanted to ask you, sir," Kim wisely used the pause to insert his question: "do you have a relative, or know of someone named Nicholas Hobson?"

"Nicholas Hobson? My gran'-granduncle was Nicholas. But he's dead long time. Surely, it's not him y'all after? Nos'sir! Not on my side of the family. Not on her side too. OK, I'll ask anyway..." He turned to his wife, still at the cooking bricks. "Nayna, sweetheart, the officers hear, they're asking if we have Nicholas Hobson for a relative!"

"No, darling," the woman replied. Surprisingly, she spoke without a trace of Indian accent. "All my relatives have Bengali names. Even by a nickname, American name, whatever, – I don't know of any Nicholas in my clan."

"Ya've so many relatives, sweetheart. If I were ya, I wouldn't be that sure."

"Maybe, not 'Nicholas,' but just 'Nick?' Nick Hobson?" Mark corrected the Deputy's question.

"If any boys in my family went under 'Nick,' they surely wouldn't be Hobsons," Nayna said. "I'm the only Hobson, and that's only because crazy to fall in love with this dude," she pointed to her husband.

Mark did not want to press the questions further. The woman's skin was dark, and the facial features were clearly Indian. Likely, nobody in her family would pass for a Caucasian.

The cobbler started again, "As for the shoes for ya' kids..."

Mark and Kim wished the cobbler good day and rushed away before the sales pitch progressed.

The next two database hits were also a complete waste of time. The first place was a small tailor shop. As for the cobbler, their business was slow, and they too desperately wanted to sell Mark something. This time, Mark did not mention the FBI at all. Perhaps, his office attire made the locals believe he was rich. Apparently, Deputy Kim was not targeted in the impromptu sales. Goddamn slums! Next time, if I need to do an investigation here, I must borrow a police uniform, Mark decided. After fighting his way through endless T-shirt and pants offerings, Mark finally received the desired information. Yes, the Hobsons lived here – two or three years ago, but since moved on. Where to? They never told us! Need a baseball cap, by chance? And none of them was Nick Hobson, anyway. What about a skirt? Not for you, for your wife, sir?

At the second location, an old Indomerican woman simply waved her hand: "no Hobson, no Hobson." She was plainly scared of Kim's uniform and not inclined to talk. So much for my decision to wear the uniform next time, Mark thought. Either way, extracting information here was like pulling a tooth. They abandoned the uncooperative crone and went to ask the neighbors. Few quick questions confirmed that the federal data were too old.

The next address came from the AFCO – Armed Forces' Career Office – database, which tended to be the most reliable. They approached tiny huts, constructed from dirt bricks and recycled wood and leaning on each other for extra support.

"I remember the place," Kim suddenly pointed out, "We investigated a dual rape here, approximately three years ago. Forgot the surnames too, but now it comes back: Hobsons, for sure."

"A dual rape?"

"Yes. Two sisters were raped. Back then, I was just a trainee and didn't learn any details..."

The little hut stood empty: its door unlocked and nothing of value inside. An elderly neighbor volunteered his opinion: "Great family, but unlucky ones. Yes, unlucky! Girls are working so hard to get the younger brothers through school. Law-obeying too. The boys went to register in AFCO a couple of months ago... Not often we see this now. Everybody runs from the Army, yes! In our time, we all volunteered! I served during the Desert Storm! My first deployment in... Oh, never mind... Anyway, the family you're after. Their dad died four or five years ago. An industrial accident, they said. The following year their mom died too. Cancer. The oldest girl, Amy, was just sixteen, and the second – not sure, eleven or twelve, I guess. And then – boom! Both girls got raped, imagine this! A great family, but unlucky, so bloody unlucky..."

"Did they have any relative, a young man, served in the Army Corps of Engineers, now a vet with an artificial leg?" Mark asked.

"A young man, you say? Served in the USACE? Not what I know of... No. If such was here, I would have seen. I sit here all day. Too difficult to move around – arthritis, goddammit... I would recognize a military guy from half a mile away! Back in Kuwait we used to... Oh, never mind... You two are busy, I understand... No, no such a relative, for these unfortunate girls. Sorry, can't help you any better, gentlemen..."

# Chapter 5

Thus, they had finished with all the database hits in the eastern part of the Slum. Noon was approaching, soon it would be too hot to walk.

"How about I feed you lunch?" Mark offered, "you deserve at least this much – for all the trouble."

"No trouble at all, sir. I would be patrolling the beat anyhow. But yes, it's stupid to refuse a free lunch. Do you eat Korean? I can show you the best place in the Slum."

They cycled for another fifteen minutes. The dirt path suddenly ended at a paved road. This was the GRS commercial center: a marketplace with little shops and cafes.

Kim proudly pointed around. "See? This part is Koreamerican! Still a slum, I take that! But much cleaner – isn't it?"

He was right: the concrete pavement was nicely swept, no garbage piles, and no poo in sight.

The cafe's name and everything else on an enormous signboard were in Korean; Mark only recognized the web address and the telephone number. The establishment was indeed very popular, and all the tables were occupied, but the owner quickly went to the back and brought the officers two plastic chairs and a little table, obviously reserved for the special guests. They ordered Tubu Jigae – a spicy soup with tofu and Kimchi cabbage on the side. The prices were reasonable: two hundred and twenty dollars for two portions.

While waiting for the food, Kim pulled out a box with local tobacco and rolled himself a cigarette. Mark did not smoke. He belonged to the tobacco-free generation: back then, smoking was forbidden almost everywhere, and steadily went out of fashion. Now everybody started smoking again. Since the Meltdown, there were no global tobacco companies anymore, and the tobacco had to be grown locally. The Houston variety was not too good, and – expensive. Sometimes, Mark wondered why the youngsters bothered with this poison, considering all the trouble involved.

Suddenly, they heard grinding noise of skateboard wheels on concrete. A young Afro-American woman on the skate rolled in front of them and lifted her red plastic bucket: "Change for Vets, officers?"

The woman had no legs and pushed the skate with two chunks of wood in her hands. For a moment Mark thought she was a fake. He heard stories about unscrupulous beggars who boasted they were mutilated in the Army and not at the 'Fill. Upon the second glance, he changed his opinion. The woman was no older than twenty, in pristine Navy Service Uniform, and with an authentic Purple Heart pinned on. Her collection bucket had a genuine Salvation Way shield and a serial number. No doubt she was a real military vet, not a pretender. The Mark and Kim simultaneously reached for their pockets.

"Thank you for your donations!" the woman gave them a mockery salute, touching her garrison cap with the fingertips. Then she pointed to Kim's cigarette, "sorry bothering you once more. I'm desperate for a smoke! Got plenty of stuff, but no paper left. Can a brave sailor spare some ammo for his former shipmate?"

"How the hell did you guess I was in the Navy?" Kim handled the woman his tobacco box.

"And how did you guess we are both 'officers'?" Mark added.

The legless smiled. "Two identical police-issue bikes parked next to each other. Two men at the table, one – in the Police uniform. How difficult to add two and two? As for the Navy, just a lucky guess. From that lighter – left on the table. An anchor and a ship name: USS Punishing. The younger man is the only smoker, so he must be from the Navy, what else!"

"Wow!" Kim picked his lighter.

"But here I could be mistaken. Let's say, you got the lighter as a present or bought it at a flea market. Still, for a sailor, it's real hard to separate from such a souvenir, – almost like abandoning a ship without the Captain's orders... To make it short, I took my chance. Apparently: spot on!"

"Bloody awesome!" Kim said, "if not for your skin color, I would bet a million you're a grand-grand-granddaughter of Mister Sherlock Holmes himself!"

"For your information, shipmate, Mister Sherlock Holmes is a book character, not a real person. Sir Arthur Conan Doyle used his hospital colleague for a prototype. As for the skin color, the black skin comes from the dominant genes. To put it simple, once you're black, all the offspring is black, does not matter what color the partner is. If my grand-grand-grandfather Sherlock really existed, all he needed was a little tourist trip to Jamaica. Even easier: there were enough emancipated black girls in London during Sir Arthur's time..." While explaining literature and genetics to Kim, the woman pulled a piece of paper from Kim's box and expertly made herself a cigarette, not with his tobacco, but her own. Kim clicked his Navy lighter.

"If you want, I can roll you a To-Ma-Gochi, too," the woman offered, returning the box to Kim, "I have a nice blend: grass and tobacco, three-to-one. Medicinal purposes only..." Texas proudly held a title of the last American state to legalize unrestricted marijuana usage. Offering Grass to police officers was still in-fashion.

"Not while I'm on-duty, sailor."

"Oh, they still don't allow the Police to smoke legal stuff? OK, not now. I can make you one, and you enjoy at home tonight."

"I prefer tobacco."

"No worries, shipmate. If you don't mind, gentlemen, can I sit here for a while? I don't need a chair..."

Mark nodded. The woman slid from her skateboard to the concrete and used her Salvation Way bucket as an armrest.

"I have not seen you around my beat. Where are you from?" Kim asked.

She giggled. "From the Dumpster-of-Caribbean, what else? Do you know what she is?"

"Sure as hell," Mark said. "My eldest son took a free cruise on her, not too long ago. Only, they halved you from below, and him – from above."

"Oops, I'm sorry. I didn't want to be offensive... Really I'm from Detroit, Michigan."

"Did you volunteer? For the Navy?" Mark asked.

"Volunteer? You may put it this way. Not like I had much choice, LOL. Detroit is like a ghost town now. In Mich, there is no food in the winter, simple as that! Dad left us when I was three months old. Mom died recently... Not a place to call home."

"I didn't know the things are so bad in Michigan," Mark said, "there is nothing on the news."

"Who would put the freaking Mich on the news? Imagine, from the Dumpster, they wanted to ship me back to Detroit. Gave me a railway pass: two weeks across the country, with all the stops. I asked them: for bloody what? And if I want to stay here? If I simply get into my wheelchair and roll out of the port? They said: no, you won't, because this chair is not yours! See that label? Property of USNS Santa Lucia. Your wheelchair, Miss, – it's in your city of origin! You will get a brand-new chair upon arrival. Oops!"

"They wrestled your wheelchair away?" Kim shook his head.

She grinned, "Yessir! Dumped my sore ass on the asphalt, just like that."

"Bastards!"

"I don't blame them. They're still in the Navy – under orders. Lucky, a Salvation Way rep came to the port: you may benefit from a set of wheels, sailor. So I got my skateboard. Frankly, I prefer it to the stupid wheelchair. It can go places no wheelchair can access. Besides, a new perspective in life. From below!" She pulled on her To-Ma-Gochi and slowly blew the smoke through the nose: "excellent Grass, way better than in Mich. Still don't want one?"

Kim waved his fingers to decline the offer. "And how did you end up here in Sheldon-Res?"

"Rolled on my skate!"

"What? All the way from Galveston?"

"Just joking. It was by pure chance."

"Pure chance?"

The legless made another puff from her cigarette, "Yep. After the Salvation Way lady gave me the skate, I went to shake her..."

She noted Mark's raised eyebrows and clarified: "I mean: shake my new skate, not the lady! The shake is a sea trial, a Navy talk for a test run. Ended up in a bar with other vets. The Moonshine was OK, but I miscalculated. Different hull displacement!"

"What do you mean?" Mark was still confused with her naval lingo.

"Displacement. The body volume. How did you call it? Halved?"

"Rude joke, forget it."

"No, I like it. Really! Must remember, it's so-o-o cool. Halved! Drink after drink, and here I am: with only half of my body volume, but a full load of 'shine inside. No idea, how I got to the bus station. Opened my eyes in the morning. Oops! I slept on bare concrete, hugging my skate! No money, pool of barf, you got the picture."

"Rough night."

"To be honest, I was never so drunk in my life."

"You have a perfect excuse," Mark said, "it's not like every day they cut your legs off and dump you on the street."

"I guess, you can call it a special occasion! Anyway, I had nothing else to do in Galveston, but no money for the bloody ticket. Then, one omnibus driver offered me a free ride. Where the hell to? Sheldon-Res, Miss. OK: Sheldon-Res. Anything is better than Detroit."

"And you decided to stay here?" Kim asked.

"At least for a while. I love the South! Imagine: here you can sleep on concrete with nothing but your skate, and still wake up alive and well in the morning. I always hated snow. Got myself a bucket from Salvation Way. Senior Officer said: as a collector, you have potential, Miss. Apparently, legless girls collect donations better than legless boys."

"Five years ago, in the Navy," Kim said, "I was told they never send girls in harm's way. Only air carriers and naval bases. Support duties... So what happened to your legs – a freak accident?"

The legless giggled. "Support duties! Depends what you call a 'support duty,' sailor. Our girls give support all-right. Fire support, hey! I was a gunner! River monitors, Piranha-class."

"Piranha-class? Those mosquito boats?"

"Yep, the space is tight. That's why we have all-female crews now. But besides the accommodation, Piranhas are not too bad: fast, reliable, and the armor is OK. Small firearms, even an RPG – no problems! If with a Russian or Czech grenade, then – maybe, but the Chinese-made – just a joke, and we didn't give a damn. Then, the guerillas got themselves those portable laser-guided missiles. Probably, a Chinese crap too, but a guided missile is not an RPG! They hit us from the aft... Our starboard gunner only screamed: 'Incoming! Missile launch at five o'clock!' Whack! An ammo loading hatch in the aft, the armor is weaker. On those monitors, if you don't know, a crew of seven: two in the gun turret up-front and five – in the superstructure. Out of five, only I survived, and four others – in pieces..."

"And so: you ended up on the Dumpster?"

"What else? Garbage like me – straight to the Dumpster!" She made a long pull from the cigarette, closed her eyes for several seconds, and exhaled a puff of sweet-smelling smoke. "Woke up already – halved," giggling, she moved her hand back and forth as if cutting the imaginary legs from the body, "no complains, the Chainsaw did his job quite OK..."

"Chainsaw?"

The legless puffed her cigarette again; now she was obviously under influence, and her speech was getting disjointed. "Chainsaw! Some smart-ass on the Dumpster invented the name for the goddamn surgeons! Like in the old horror movie... A maniac with a chainsaw: who is the wounded here? Boo-ha-ha-ha! One cut, – no legs! Nurses, this one is ready to go! Ne-e-ext!"

The cafe waitress arrived with the ordered lunch and proceeded placing bowls on the table. She said nothing, but looked at the legless vet with obvious disapproval.

"Disregard this crap, officers. Sorry. My To-Ma-Gochi! It makes me telling all kinds of nonsense. Funny!" The vet's cigarette burnt almost to her fingers. She extinguished the stub on concrete. "Don't let me spoil your lunch, officers. Thanks for your donations, the smoke, and the talk, but I'd better get rolling... Rolling, rolling, rolling, a-ha..." She threw her truncated body back on the skate and set her red bucket between the stumps.

"See you around," Kim replied. The legless waved to them and pushed her skate between the tables, collecting more donations. Then, she returned to the road and continued towards the next roadside cafe.

"She is cute," Kim said, watching the skate-bound vet.

"She was even cuter before they chopped her legs off," Mark mumbled digging into his bowl of spicy soup. The legless vet story made him upset. He briefly imagined Pamela or Samantha, being without legs and riding a skate like this. Goddamn generals. Now sending girls to war!

"I don't know how bad it is in other places," Kim said, "but in GRS, one out of three families has someone either killed or wounded in action. Why are we fighting so many little wars at once? Amazing, how the U.S. of mighty A. got itself in such a deep shit in such a short time."

"Our neighborhood is the same: every third family," Mark nodded, "our family too. Did I tell you about my William?"

"You did, sir. How is he coping?"

"Not too bad, considering... Well, we are not alone. The same bloody story – twice a year. A young fellow gets drafted. Bang! He is back, short of an arm or a leg. Or even worse: the family gets a nice letter from the Pentagon and a little parcel with a medal. Postmortem! You are what: twenty-four, twenty-five? How much do you remember before the Meltdown?"

"I remember it was bloody great. Piece of cake. Perhaps, I was too little to remember any bad things. The GFC I didn't see at all, – I was only three at the time," Kim said, also digging into his Tubu Jigae. "We lived in Charleston, West Virginia, in a rich neighborhood. A huge mansion for a house. My brother and I went to a posh, boys only, – private school. Jackets, neckties, and Eton straw hats! My Dad was a branch manager in a bank, Mom – a consultant auditor. Both made good money. After the GFC, Dad did not lose his job, just the opposite, got a promotion. He said, we had to start an alternative investment, which was pretty much all I cared about the freaking GFC."

"An alternative investment? In what?"

"Dad stopped at Walmart three times a week and bought food. Canned beans, canned meat, macaronis, flour, and dry milk – that sort of stuff. He filled the basement with non-perishable food. An entire shelf full of toilet paper, I am not kidding! Also, we had an electric generator and two barrels of gas – in the garage... Now I think my Dad awaited the Meltdown to happen."

"Did the investment work?"

"Not bloody much! After the Meltdown, both my parents lost jobs, but it was OK: the shops were empty anyway. We started using the stuff stored in the basement. Two-three cans a day. Dad calculated we had enough for at least four years... Shit no! Two months later, we were robbed."

"Like a bank robbery?"

"At the gun-point! Perhaps, the neighbors learned of our 'investment,' and got jealous. Six robbers: two women and four men, all in ski masks. My Dad tried to fight back and was shot dead. At the basement stairs..."

"Oh shit!"

"They locked my younger brother and me in the bathroom upstairs and told Mom they would send us after Dad if she disobeys. She helped loading our stuff into our cars... We had Dad's sport utility and Mom's Daewoo compact. The robbers loaded both cars, and two or three of them would drive off, back in few hours. They filled the cars from our own gas barrels! Frankly, I still wonder why the bastards didn't kill us. We were left with nothing, just one sofa and empty cabinets, which could not fit into the SUV."

"Did you call Police?"

"Sure. They helped: sent a coroner truck to carry Dad's body away. It was all."

"In Houston, it was the same," Mark said. "People called 911 and got nothing. But: what could we do? The Police cars had no gas – imagine!"

"We chopped our furniture to keep the fireplace going," Kim continued. "Mom ran from charity to charity, but most places were closed. Nobody had food, who would donate? Mom said: if we stay in Charleston, we won't survive the next winter. Thus, we went. Eighteen-wheelers drove in large convoys – not to be robbed. One trucker took us all the way to Houston. We settled in GRS. They didn't call it Garret Road Slum yet, and it was much smaller – only about a mile along the road..."

"Must be a culture shock."

"You bet... Mom got a job at the 'Fill. From a financial auditor – to a rag-picker! We rented a corner. Imagine living in the same room with seventeen other people – after having a mansion! Our first day in school – the Null's Middle. We came in those first compulsory uniforms. I shined my shoes, just like in Charleston. Bang! The bullies said: you look too bloody neat. We have rules here. And the first rule: No show-offs. They brought us to a pond of crap behind the school grounds. This damn pond still serves the same purpose: for the sissies."

"Were you the sissies?"

"Undeniable. What else can you be in a posh private school? Well, now I think our brand-new school shoes triggered the entire show. First thing first, we were ordered to take the shoes off. The big boys said they would throw them into the latrine. Likely, the bastards just hid them and later sold at the flea market. Anyway, shoes off – and straight into the crap. They cut our uniforms with razor blades. Back then, boys had only razors, not knives. Half of the school assembled to see the sissies being properly initiated into the Null's Middle. OK, how much better, everybody agreed. Now the posh private school sissies can blend in."

"And your Mom?"

"First, she almost killed us: for the missing shoes and ruined uniforms. Second, she went to see the Principal. He said: oh, no worries, just a little joke, the boys do such things all the time. Teens, peer pressure, you must understand. He couldn't do anything, and he didn't care. We didn't have much choice either. The only alternative was not to go to school at all."

"And what did you do?"

"Had to blend in, what else? Mom washed and patched our uniforms, so we looked neither better nor worse than anybody else in the class. We had to go in flip-flops and got regular detentions – for the dress code. I admit, attending Null's gave us practical survival skills: kill or be killed..."

"The schools are still a mess," Mark nodded, "but at least they are not so damn crazy about uniforms anymore."

Over the last ten years, the school uniform rules have been gradually relaxed. By now, most kids went in assorted military second-hand. The footwear, considering the mild climate and 'temporary difficult economic situation,' was declared optional. Mark's younger kids often went to school barefoot. Not so that Mark could not afford three pairs of tire sandals, but the No show-offs rule stood, even stronger than during Kim's times. The unlucky kids in slightly better clothes were quite at risk of bullying from ever-barefoot and rag-clad urchins from poor slum families.

# Chapter 6

Mark returned to the Station just before two o'clock. From the Korean cafe he checked his e-mails and made a couple of phone calls. Alan Moss, the Medical Examiner and CSI supervisor, wrote that both victims had been 'processed,' and he would be ready to discuss the autopsy results in the afternoon. Sergeant Investigator Zuiko had finished with the potential witness search and targeted to several addresses from the database. There was neither new information on Nick Hobson's relatives, nor positive ID on the female victim.

On the way, Mark stopped at the local SWC. He visited this place two or three times per year, and almost every time it was about funerals. Formerly a Thrift Store, with slightly corrected red shield, it was called now Salvation Way Center. Large shop-windows displayed official propaganda. On one poster, a man in Salvation Way uniform held a donation bucket: Say NO to beggars. DONATE TO OFFICIAL CHARITIES* ONLY. The next poster stated: You are not alone. THE SALVATION WAY* SUPPORTS AMERICAN VETERANS. On the picture, a uniformed lady handed a carton, full of clothes and other donations, – to a wheelchair-bound vet. The asterisks pointed to small print, identical on both posters. Several lines in legalese explained that the explicit rights to solicit charitable donations on behalf of military veterans and other underprivileged had been granted to Salvation Way by such-and-such decrees on such-and-such dates. Mark grinned. His son William had never received any box, large or small, from the Salvation Way, or any other 'official charity.'

The window at the entrance contained a message board. Letters cut from white paper, over blue background: COLLECTION COUNT. Monday, 8AM-11AM. Tuesday thru Saturday, 4PM-7PM. First-come, first-serve. Never tamper with bucket seals!

Mark read the next announcement, written in thick black marker over a sheet of recycled cardboard: NO SPOT-HOLDING. Effective immediately. No exceptions. Due to frequent disputes, permanent collection spots will be assigned TO QUAD AMPUTEES AND QUADRIPLEGIC ONLY. ALL OTHERS MUST ROTATE EVERY TWO HOURS. Please respect the fellow collectors and DO YOUR LΘΘP. In the 'LOOP,' both letters 'O' were converted into a resemblance of eyes, and above scribbled: Big Brother is watching YOU!!!

A little piece of paper below said: Due to temporary shortage of parts, no wheelchairs will be delivered in January 2030. 'January' was crossed, and above it said: Q1. The latter in turn had been crossed, with pencil explanation: No deliveries till August. Sorry.

Several notes were not on the board inside the window, but glued to the glass outside: REPAIRED SCHOOL BAGS! Many choice! Like-new condition! Below, a line of Chinese characters probably stated the same, and a phone number followed.

PRE-OWNED UNIFORMS AND OTHER CLOTHES. Buy, sell, barter, any alterations. GRS, Viet-patch 2, ask Hung.

NO LEGS? Fix your wheelchair at 50% discount! Mike Hobson's Mechanics and Welding, Mesa Drive. Hobson, Mark observed. He saw the name in the address list obtained from Identifications, and Mesa Drive was in their plan for Friday.

A short balding man past sixty appeared at the door, with a spray bottle and a scraper in his hands. "Special Agent Pendergrass?"

"Senior Officer Todd?" They exchanged a handshake.

The relations between Mr. Todd and Mark had been cordial, but chilled down after William joined Change for Vets. Trying to please Mark, Mr. Todd back then went into a lengthy speech, why the participation in the charity program is essential for the vets' mental and physical wellbeing, and how William and Clarice can benefit from it. Mark was not pleased, but rather hurt that now William had no choice, other than to become a donations' collector.

"I guess, you want to talk funerals again?" Senior Officer asked, "I saw the SRTV news. Unfortunate, unfortunate... The boy, they said, was a Marine..."

"They lied, as usual. Our SRTV never checks info. The boy served in the Corps of Engineers."

"Engineers, you say?" Mr. Todd sprayed the notes at the window glass. "Goddamn slum shops! I'm sick and tired cleaning this crap!"

"What's wrong with the notes?" Mark asked.

"Everything! Pre-owned uniforms! Many choice! If you want to do charity – give to our Thrift Store. Last year, we failed objectives again! How do I suppose to make a budget if nobody donates?" He touched the notes with his scraper, but the glue held. "Never mind, I do it later. C'mon in."

Inside, the air was hot and humid. Its windows designed with air conditioning in mind, the Center had no air conditioners anymore. The propaganda posters, naturally, served as a dual-purpose technology: besides the routine brainwashing, they were intended to reduce sun glare. A fat girl in jungle camo and 'flops, repeatedly wiping sweat from her forehead, unpacked boxes with brand-new donation buckets. Similar to the schools, the Salvation Way somewhat relaxed its uniform requirements over the last few years. Even the Senior Officer was dressed in a dark-blue hat and a light-blue shirt with little shoulder emblems, but with khaki trousers and tire sandals.

Mr. Todd waved to a chair. "Your son is doing great! Yesterday, our Armless Boy delivered a personal record: two hundred and fifty-three dollars! He is a walking cash machine!"

"A walking cash machine?" Mark winced at the enthusiastic definition, which sounded a lot like a beggar's moniker.

Mr. Todd, oblivious to Mark's displeased intonation, continued: "Did Billy tell you he made into our top-ten list? Another week, and Collector of the Month may be coming his way! Tea?"

"I wouldn't mind a cup of tea..." Today, Mark needed Salvation Way more than the charity needed him. "Before we talk funerals, could you check your records? The deceased has no registration in Texas, but he is a military vet: no leg."

"With one leg? It has nothing to do with us. Unless, the vet is our volunteer or in alcoholics' rehab, and such."

"And who would have the full list of disabled veterans?"

"No idea. The Pentagon, I suppose. They don't report to us! OK, I'm joking: we're an independent charity! Can you ask in prosthetic clinics? No, that's not right. Not every vet is eligible for a prosthesis... I'm positive only the Pentagon has the names. It's a huge undertaking."

"Why so?"

"Just too many of them. For example, in our Change for Vets, we have six hundred and twenty-four collectors. Top of the iceberg. As the statistics goes, for every vet without both legs, there should be eight or nine one-legged. Besides, if a vet has both knees, we don't accept him in the program. I'd say he should find himself a better job than shaking a bucket at the corner!"

"And how many would you estimate in total? For the whole 'iceberg,' I mean?"

"In our Center area? Six to seven thousand vets. I'd say, two and a half percent of the area's population."

"Holy shit! You mean: one out of forty people? It can't be true!"

"Why not? Take your own street and do mental math: how many vets do you have? It can give you a general feel for the numbers."

OK, take our little cul-de-sac, Mark calculated in his head. How many vets? Blind Paul, from across the road, a boy on crutches down the street, another boy with an artificial leg... Another one, the postman's son, what's his name? Still making his prosthesis... Plus Damian from the corner – with no hands, then, another young man in a wheelchair. Plus our William! Seven?

"On our street, I am getting seven. You must be right, even if it sounds unbelievable."

Mr. Todd pulled an extra mug from the desk drawer and poured from a chipped teapot. The substitute tea had an unusual scent: burr or sagebrush, but otherwise was drinkable. "I can check my spreadsheets anyway. We may get lucky. What's the vets' name?"

"Nicholas S. Hobson."

"Hobson, Hobson..." Mr. Todd took a sip from his mug and typed a search on his laptop. The poor contraption held on rubber glue and duct tape. "We have Hillary Hobson, a volunteer. Nice old lady. A widow, if I am not mistaken. Runs a soup kitchen." He turned the screen towards Mark.

Mark pulled his phone and compared the record with his own list. "Yep. I have her already."

"Talking the volunteer jobs, our Superintendent was very fond of your daughter-in-law. Rissy never says 'no,' and always smiles! I'm thinking: hence she has delivered already, we can give her a permanent placement in our Scoop of Soup Kitchens! Free food – every day! Why don't you ask her to fill an application? How is her new baby?"

"Her new baby is fine, but still inside! Clarice is not due for another two months," Mark said.

"Two months? My bad! We have eighteen hundred volunteers, can't remember everybody, Mister Pendergrass."

A very selective memory. Senior Officer recalled William's yesterday collection with one-dollar accuracy, and probably remembered serial numbers on all the red buckets in his Center, but Clarice's pregnancy was of no interest to the Salvation Way business.

"Clarice will not accept a permanent role, Mister Todd. If I understand her correctly, she has a firm intention to become pregnant again, and as soon as possible. Why are they so in-hurry to make kids?"

"Kids are the best investment nowadays! Francine and I were stupid to have just one child, and – you know what happened..." His face went bleak. Mr. Todd's only son was killed in action on the very first day of Operation Gas Shield in Libya, four years after the Meltdown.

"Sorry, Mister Todd."

"Oh, don't apologize... I mention it myself... Shall we continue?"

"Yes. But I think we can save time if you just copy and paste all the Hobsons into a separate spreadsheet and e-mail it."

"Oh, great idea." Mr. Todd went silent, clicking the mouse button.

Strangely enough, I never thought we have that many war veterans, Mark contemplated. Earlier today, Kim told me about his slum: 'one out of three families has someone killed or wounded,' and I agreed: yes, our neighborhood was the same. But if every neighborhood was equally affected, the number of vets must be thousands and thousands. Take the US at three hundred and fifty million, two and a half percent would be what? Eight and a half mil!

While in the high school, Mark read about a cruel experiment: if you drop a frog in hot water, the frog jumps out. But if the water is cool initially, and you slowly bring it to boil, the frog sits in the pot – until it's too late. It had a scientific name: conditioning. Of course, they never performed such a test in the class. By double standards of the pre-Meltdown total political correctness, it was too gruesome! You could chop somebody's head or spill human guts in a mere PG-13 movie, but boiling a frog to death? No-o-o!

I should ask Samantha if they boiled frogs in their Science-and-Technology class, Mark decided. Ten or twelve years ago, a young man on crutches was a rarity. Now they were so common, one would pay no attention. Slowly, slowly it became absolutely normal. We had been bloody conditioned.

"OK, all done," Mr. Todd reported, "eighteen Hobsons all together."

Mark's phone made a short vibration, indicating the message from Mr. Todd had arrived, and Mark opened the attached file. Eighteen addresses were more than he was hoping for. It was clear the Senior Officer was not very adept to spreadsheet technology. The rows, obviously originated from different spreadsheet pages, had different formats. Mark removed cockerel backgrounds and began comparing the names with the Identifications hits.

Hobson, Andy and Suzy, he read. The address column said: Uvalde Rd, check in tents under US-90 overpass.

"Here, Mister Todd," Mark pointed to the phone screen, "Hobson, Andy and Suzy. Are they new to the area?"

"Andy and Suzy... Hobson, Andy..." Senior Officer scrolled his spreadsheet. "Ah! Yes, they are new. The comment says: moved to Houston from Chicago, Illinois, this February. Andy has no legs, a collector in Change for Vets. Suzy is his sister, unemployed."

"I see. An excellent find, thanks!" Mark copied the address into his checklist. "Shall we discuss the funerals?"

"Happy to be useful," Mr. Todd smiled. "With the funerals, I see no problem at all. The man is a military vet. The USACE, you said? I will not even need an approval from the Houston Command! Who is the dead girl?"

"Apparently, she was the vet's girlfriend. No name yet. I doubt she had anything to do with the military."

"No big deal: funerals for one or for two – the same expense. Ten o'clock tomorrow. We arrange the standard music and rifles... Fine with you?"

"Absolutely."

"When do you want my volunteers to retrieve the bodies from your morgue?"

"Today! Major Ferelli will chew my ass if we run our generator for another night."

They quickly discussed the usual details: closed caskets, photographs, et al.

"Before I forget," Mr. Todd said, extending his hand for goodbye, "Was your Billy in the Engineers?"

"In the diggers, yes. William even went to Venezuela just after this Nicholas Hobson was there."

"Excellent! Our Armless Boy must attend the funerals!"

"I'm not sure it's a good idea, Mister Todd. The cemetery is five miles from our place. William can't go alone, and Clarice is seven-months pregnant... As you know now."

"Five miles? For such a strong girl? No big deal. Look!" Senior Officer pointed to a map on the wall. "The Beaumont Loop! I have collectors here, here, and here! Also here: next to the bars, and here: at the flea market," his sausage-like finger circled the area. Arrows and crosses resembled a war plan. No effort was spared to stick a disabled vet at every corner. "Unfortunately, the legless are not as effective as they used to be, and we are missing revenue – big time! Billy, our walking cash machine, – must help!"

Mark lifted the corners of his lips in a half-polite, half-upset smile. "OK, Mister Todd. I will pass the word. Let Clarice decide if she is up to such a walk..."

Back to the Station, Mark went to see the CSIs and the Medical Examiner. Doctor Alan Moss was in his office, typing a report and sipping acorn coffee. He often complained that caffeine deprivation was the only real concern in his life.

"Perfect timing, Mark," he stood from his chair and waved two CSIs in the adjoined cubicles into a conference room. The wall LCD panel was on. "Natalie, let's start from the crime scene!"

Natalie nodded. "We have the usual stuff: the same polka-dot gloves, and the same knife blade... The most interesting lead is the bike sprocket imprint on the female vic's jeans. On the road, I picked a fresh tire trail. Mountain bike tires, my measurements suggest: twenty-six inch. The rear tire has a distinct patch. We will give you a positive ID. If you can find the bike for us, naturally."

They browsed through endless crime scene photos. Mark remembered terse definitions from the Butcher's profile they requested at the Washington Behavioral Unit: well organized, high IQ, forensically aware, pays close attention to details, prefers to be in control...

"Now – the male vic," Alan said, "With the military record, – identification is trivial. We have compared all ten fingers, just to avoid any mistake: Nicholas Hobson, confirmed. There is something to narrow your search. Tom ran serial numbers from the prosthetic parts. The vic got his leg in New York, and was at the rehab center from the fourteenth till the thirty-first of May 2029. Then, he had a follow-up visit to the same rehab on the sixth of September. Unfortunately, in Texas Nicholas Hobson had not visited any rehab and left no paper trail."

"The cause of death?"

"Severed carotid artery. He expired in seconds. No other evidence on the body, no marks from struggle, nothing. I doubt the perp touched the vic with anything, but the knife blade. One single blow, very professional. Well, it's identical to all the other cases."

Mark nodded. This was the usual modus operandi. The serial killer swiftly killed the male victim, so there would be no struggle, and the female had little chance to escape. All suggested some kind of special training: the Navy SEALs, or Marines, or Special Ops.

Last July, Mark obtained a list of the former servicemen with the special forces' background: six hundred and something names. He asked Benito Ferelli to spare six officers for two weeks. Major only gave two men, but for two months. They went from address to address, asking the same set of questions. What did you do in the Army? Where do you work now? Do you have a standard-issue Army knife? The answers to the former questions were somewhat different; the latter universally produced: yes, why do you ask? The problem was that back then the FBI did not know much at all. The knife and the polka-dot working gloves, but Mark decided not to mention the polka-dots in the interviews. They had too many information leaks, and he was concerned about potential copycats.

The hope was that they could identify men who get too nervous being confronted by a policeman. If someone ran, it would be a possible hint for further digging. Alas, no luck. If the killer was amongst the listed men, he had guts to stay calm during the short interview.

Another hope was that the perpetrator would hear about the knife and change his weapon. This would indirectly indicate 'their' man had been on the list. But – no luck again. The knife remained the same through the subsequent kills. Perhaps, 'their' man was not amongst the ones they had questioned. Or he anticipated the trick and left the weapon unchanged; forensically aware, exactly as the profile said.

"Anything we can learn from the female vic?" Mark asked.

"Oh, this came more intriguing than it looked initially! I let Natalie explain." Alan located a photo in his laptop and projected to the screen: several hairs photographed under magnification.

Natalie took a laser pointer. "As usual, we do the external search first. These hairs come from five different people. The numbers three to seven – positively a pubic hair. These two hairs on the left – they have follicles – so we extracted DNA. The DNA – next photo, Alan, – is from two different males, and neither of them is Nicholas Hobson. And not from any of the victim's close relatives. All patterns are too distant."

"You don't believe, how much trouble it cost me to convince our Major to let us use yet another DNA kit..." Alan clicked photos back and forth. "Budget is tight, he said. Budget-schmudget, my ass!"

"So I was told, you can be very convincing, Alan," Mark said. "To the point of being abrasive! What exactly did you call Benito this time?"

"Never mind. What I called him, I am not sharing with you... But, we haven't told Mark the main thing, Natalie! Please continue."

"Here we have the female vic's abdomen," Natalie pointed to tiny scars. "She has been surgically sterilized! Also, the autopsy strongly indicates she had a second-trimester abortion, probably at the same time as the sterilization. OK, if not for the pubic hair from five different men, this could mean practically anything. But, in combination with the hairs – there is only one prominent possibility: our female vic must be a hooker!"

"And all odds are she works... was working – for a pimp. The ones who work for themselves, seldom do this type of surgery," Alan added. "After the abortions and sterilizations became illegal, only a rich, fat pimp can smack enough cash on the table for a laparoscopic procedure."

"That would explain the male removing his prosthesis," Mark agreed, "if the girl was doing sex for money, she didn't have much choice. To the contrary, I can't understand the thermal flask and the home-made cookies. Imagine somebody hires a prostitute – to serve her tea? Besides, the female didn't have a license tag."

"The absent tag means nothing," the second CSI, Tom, objected, "for each licensed, Houston has at least three illegal." This was true. Despite five-year effort to legalize (and tax) the sex trade business, most of the 'workers' still preferred to stay unregistered. "In the unlikely case she had her chip removed, we can quickly scan the SSP database for a fingerprint match."

"You're too late with your suggestion," Natalie said, "I requested the SSP check yesterday. No luck..." The abbreviation SSP stood for 'Sexual Services Providers,' but most translated it as 'Some Serious Prostitutes.'

"This make me think of something," Mark said. "The Salvation Way organizes a funeral service for the vics – tomorrow at ten. Do you, guys, have a reliable friend around the Harris County Cemetery? Got to be no association with the Police whatsoever. Preferably a young woman – it's typical for the role. I wonder if we can outfit her with a high-definition camera, like a news volunteer. To maintain the cover, we can later send her footage to SRTV, no harm here."

"You don't hope the perp shows up at the funerals, do you?" Alan asked.

"No. That's not what I have in mind. If the female vic is indeed a hooker, especially an unlicensed one, we may see her pimp in the footage. He is probably missing his asset and wonders if she's killed."

"I can go," Natalie volunteered. "Just dress like a landfill worker."

"No, not any of us. Our faces have been on TV more than few times already. I wanted to go myself, but on the second thought, the total stranger with a camera would give us marginally better chance."

Alan nodded. "If any at all..."

# Chapter 7

The family woke up even earlier than usual: William, Clarice, and Davy targeted to the Beaumont Loop.

Mark delivered Mr. Todd's message as promised. "I don't think you have to go, Clarice," he added, "back and forth, it will be over ten miles. With your tummy, I would stick to our marketplace, if I were you."

"If the Senior Officer says so, we must go," Clarice said.

My daughter-in-law took the stupid Salvation Way programs a notch too seriously, Mark observed.

From December, Clarice started playing a little game with Davy. "Show me – Daddy's hands!" The toddler would wiggle his own fingers in the air. "Here are Daddy's hands! Now show me Daddy's eyes!" Davy would point to his own eyes. "Here are Daddy's eyes! Now show me Daddy's legs!" Bang! Bang! The little boy slapped his hand on the Dad's knees. "Right! Here are Daddy's legs!" The boy understood his Dad now had two legs, but no hands and no eyes, – and was happy to provide his own as a replacement.

The Salvation Way ending of the game Mark did not like at all. "Now tell me, Davy: who is your Daddy?" – "A vet!" – "What is the red bucket for?" – "Salvation Way!" "And how do we ask for donations, Davy?" – "Change for Vets!"

"Despite Mister Todd is called a Senior Officer," Mark said, "who the hell is he to give you such an order? Just say 'no'."

But Clarice smiled: "Mister Todd has a point. Other collectors say the Beaumont Loop is pretty darn good. After five, the 'Fill workers go to the local watering holes with their pockets full of money!"

Yes, full of money! An average adult rag-picker made three hundred, maximum three hundred and fifty, a day. How much in the pre-Meltdown dollars? Two dollars and eighty cents! Back then, it would hardly buy a single beer. The good news, now the booze was relatively cheaper. Thirty bucks for a glass of local beer, forty – for a shot of Moonshine. The former contained various substitutes instead of barley, was unfiltered, and frequently went sour. The latter was a certified poison, but all these minor issues did not prevent the landfill workers spending their daily wages in the endless saloons strategically positioned along the highway.

"No need to walk the whole ten miles," Mike said, "in the morning, I can take you three to the cemetery on my trike. You will attend the funerals, then walk back slowly. Still quite a distance."

"Excellent!" Clarice clapped her hands, "are we going?"

"Mike needs to be at his plant before seven. If I understand you right, you propose to wake up at five tomorrow?" William disagreed. "And what the hell will we be doing at the empty cemetery between seven and ten?"

"I know! Not a problem," Clarice said, "Instead of the cemetery, Mike will drop us at Day-Pay. Right? It runs six to nine. After nine, we have plenty of time to get to the cemetery, it's not far at all."

"The Day-Pay collection is crap," William said. "Too much competition. Besides, the job-seekers don't have much to donate. They are sitting at the Day-Pay because they have no job, remember?"

Clarice kissed William in the ear. "Pumpkin, we must go. Frankly, I'm pretty bored doing our market every day. Please, please, please... Besides, our Davy has not been to the Beaumont Highway yet!"

She said 'the Beaumont Highway' as if talking of Disneyland or Six Flags Over Texas. Of course, she meant that little arcade, with electronic games, a Merry-Go-Round, and Bumper Cars! The owner had to run his own electric generator at the back, but despite the expensive gas – still turned profit. Kids were kids. Even the grown-up-and-pregnant kids, like Clarice.

Before the Meltdown, life had way more fun. Mark and Mary did not like sitting at home on the weekends. They took William and Michael to all kinds of entertainment places. The NASA Space Center, thirty-five miles. The Houston Museum District – twenty. The Schlitterbanh water park in Galveston – fifty miles. Or even the huge, famous Schlitterbanh in the New Braunfels, and all the attractions in San-Antonio, one hundred and ninety miles away! A fifty-miles drive was quite comfortable, save for the usual 'Are we there yet?' moaning from the back seat. Two hundred miles weekend trip, with a motel stay overnight, was not too difficult. The magic of effortless travel, performed by almost every adult American with a car and a tank-full of gas!

Now the plan for Davy's day trip: ride a cargo trike to the landfill, hang around the noisy labor market, and attend boring funerals. The latter has some excitement nonetheless, – a rifle salute! After the cemetery, collect charity with his Dad from saloon to saloon and from bar to bar, until Mom points out: look, Davy, THE ARCADE! They will buy tickets for the Merry-Go-Round. The little boy will wait in a long line, excited. Finally, he will cling to the back of a fiberglass pony, doing loop after loop, watching thousands of color lights, enjoying the ride. All three and a half minutes of it!

"OK, honey, if you insist," William said. "The real pity, I'm going to miss The Fugitive re-run on SRTV tonight. With Harrison Ford and Tommy Lee Jones! I like that part, when Deputy Gerard blows off the man's head and says: I don't bargain..."

"You have seen it approximately two hundred times, pumpkin," Clarice kissed her husband again, now in the lips.

"Not in my brand-new twenty-twenty vision, honey," William smiled, returning the kiss. The 'twenty-twenty' was William's latest joke. Apparently, his left eye had a twenty-twenty vision: twenty-by-twenty pixels, to be exact.

"I will get your uniform ready," Clarice said, "the medal – too!"

There was a little delay. Once they started snogging, Clarice could not physically stop for at least five minutes. Finally, she unwrapped herself from her husband and stumbled to the neighbor, Mrs. Kong, to borrow a coal-iron. An invention of the local blacksmith: old electric irons gutted, with perforated metal boxes for hot coals installed under the handle...

They departed home at six: Mark on his bike and the others on Mike's cargo tricycle. For a mile, Mike puffed on pedals, trying to keep up with Mark, but finally gave up and told Mark to ride on. Mark turned to C.E.King Parkway, and continued to the Station. He and Kim spent another morning checking the database hits for Hobsons, this time – at the GRS west. A few minutes past one, Mark's phone beeped, – their 'TV volunteer' brought her funerals' video. Mark rode to the Station as fast as he could, – the address search today was fruitless, and he held some, perhaps unnecessary high, hopes for the video.

At the Station conference room, Tom introduced Mark their volunteer agent – a girl about sixteen. A typical rag-picker: barefoot, in military pants, ragged T-shirt, and with wide-brimmed straw hat behind her back. Her ears were pierced in no less than ten places, with an impressive collection of earrings. Over the neck, she had a massive necklace made of colorful Lego bricks, with matching Lego bracelets on her left wrist and her right ankle. An elaborate tattoo started at the girl's neck and ended up on her cheek: half-Hydra, half-plant, with snake heads growing next to leaves and flowers. One Hydra head on the cheek was not yet fully punched-in, just a black contour and a diamond-shaped eye.

"Alice is our neighbor," Tom said. "Currently she's between the jobs, and goes to the Day-Pay in the morning, so nothing conspicuous. Even better: they know her well at SRTV..."

"You're lying, Tom," Alice rotated her Lego bracelet, "SRTV only used my footage once, so far!"

"Are you a real rag-picker, or is it a make-believe for today?" Mark asked shaking the girl's hand.

"A real scav," she said. Her handshake was confident and firm, almost macho-style. "I've been around the 'Fill for almost five years."

She pointed to the corner, and Mark saw a well-used straw basket with landfill tools: a hook on four-foot bamboo handle, a spear-like probe with a long nail for the tip, and a pair of scav-skis. The yard-long wooden planks with flip-flop straps at the top helped rag-pickers over unstable garbage.

Tom inserted the camera's memory stick into his laptop. "We forced to higher ISO and one over two hundred exposure, so each frame is as sharp as possible," he explained. The video on the wall LCD panel started rolling.

"I came forty minutes before the service, as Tom told me," Alice said. "Here comes the local competition," she pointed to the screen. There was another young woman with a handheld camera, preparing to roll the footage. "She asked me why the heck I'm filming on her territory. I lied that I volunteered for Salvation Way..." They anticipated this. Mr. Todd was informed, and if asked he would confirm they ordered Alice a short video for the charity promotion.

Exactly as Mark agreed with Mr. Todd, there were no photos of victims in front of the chapel. They set the slightly doctored postmortem shots inside, next to the closed coffins. If somebody attended the service just for the purpose of learning the identity of the dead, he or she would have to pass through the front doors.

The grave diggers appeared first, readily recognized by their somewhat dirty pants' knees and footwear. Then, there were eight men in Salvationists' uniforms: a five-strong brass band and three volunteers with rifles. The band lined up at the entrance and started playing a remote resemblance of funeral music. After filming outside for a little while, Alice walked inside the chapel and took position close to the caskets at the tiny stage. The entire hall, with neat rows of benches, and the entrance door – were perfectly framed.

"You are pretty good with the camera, Alice," Alan said. "Don't waste your talent at McCarty Road."

She smiled. "If anybody paid me for shooting videos, I wouldn't be looking for day jobs at the 'Fill! Anyway, watch this. A bit unusual for the funerals..."

The camera panned along the room and zoomed towards the rear. Mark briefly mentioned Clarice, with little Davy on her laps, and William, in his uniform and with freshly polished Purple Heart, sitting in the fifth row.

"This one," Alice pointed, "the girl in crimson tunic."

On the screen, an Amerasian woman in her mid-twenties, slowly walked towards the stage. She stopped and glimpsed at the victims' photographs. Then, as if she could not decide if to leave immediately or wait, she wandered around the chapel and finally landed at the rear bench, next to the entrance.

"Look at her dress," Alan smiled, "I can bet my last cup of real coffee she works for a pimp."

"Reverse the video, Tom," Natalie asked. "I need a clear shot for the face-rec."

By the time they finished the video, Natalie walked in with the good news:

"We have a positive hit! Jennifer, or Jen Lien, born in 2006. Her juvenile criminal record – as long as my arm. She tried all the usual: small-volume drug pushing, petty burglary, underage prostitution, illegal pregnancy termination, you name it. According to our intel, now Jen works as a pass girl for a pimp named Joe Vo."

"Vo?" Alan said, "a smart cookie, apparently. Will be difficult to make him talk..."

"Fortunately enough, we are not the Sex Trade division," Mark pointed out. "Our task is not to jail the pimp, or this Jen Lien, but just squeeze them for some intel, – and only if they know anything at all."

"If sending the crooks to jail is not your priority, Mark, I can arrange a set-up," Alan said. "Let me make several calls to my old criminal underground friends. Just to warn you, it wouldn't hold fifty seconds in front of any judge..."

As soon as Mark walked into his office, his telephone rang.

"Mister P!" Sergeant Zuiko sounded promising, "you don't believe what I found for sale at the Garret Road market!"

"Tell me."

"A bike. Half-price, and in excellent working order."

"The excellent order is excellent, and the half-price is even better, but not a big surprise," Mark already could guess, but did not want to spoil Alex the punch-line.

"With the bike, I also got a fine gentleman who calls himself Joe Smith. I don't buy this for his real name, naturally, but we will rectify this in due time... Right, Mister... Smith?" The last remark was spoken loudly, to somebody on the other side of the line.

"Anyway, Mister... let's say, Smith, has a pair of perfectly good legs. He never broke his leg, believe it or not. How he ran from us, nothing wrong with the legs at all... Not until you suddenly break one, that is. Accidents happen all the time, Mister... still: Smith? The longer you call yourself Joe Smith, the higher the chance of an accident... Oh, that is not for the phone, this is for my friend Joe here. Anyway, the bike Mister Smith tried to sell, it has very peculiar right pedal. With a brace. Right, as for a prosthetic leg! What? It belonged to your uncle, Joe? He had no leg? And I am your Bolshoi Ballet dancer, Joe. Ta-ta-ta-ta, ta-ta, ta-ta..." Alex probably trying to show 'Mr. Smith' the Swan Lake now, Mark imagined. Sarge had two hundred and fifty pounds of pure muscle, this would be comical.

Only if it was not scary! The Russian accent was authentic, and the matter-of-fact tone – extremely convincing. "Sorry, it's again to our friend here. We are having a conversation most interesting. Trying to communicate, so to speak. Did I ever tell you what I did to that ballet dancer, back in Moscow? Tovarisch had a peculiar interest in young boys... That is 'Moscow, Russia,' Joe, not 'Moscow, Texas!' He is, like, don't touch my legs, don't touch my legs... And I am: who am I to ever touch your legs, man? Am I a barbarian? I have respect for the classic ballet, do I? No-o-o, I did not touch his wonderful legs. Just between the legs... the other things. Now, he must be so grateful: nothing interferes with his stellar performance... As for you, Joe... You are not a ballet dancer, by chance? No? Outstanding! I already imagine a heavy office desk, – which may suddenly fall on somebody's leg, dear Joe. Such a cruelty, so difficult to explain. – Sometimes, in the night, I ask myself: Sarge, what are you doing in the Police? What are you doing? Sad, very sad indeed..."

"Excellent catch, Alex. How sure are you about Mister Smith's one-legged uncle?" Mark asked. It seemed they had a lucky strike of the day.

"I forgot to mention the most important thing. It's a mountain bike, twenty-six inch. The rear tire has a patch on it, as our CSI saw at the dirt trail you-know-where. Anyway, that's all from my side – for now. Kim and I will deliver our new friend Joe to the Station. He will sit next to my heavy, heavy desk and we will have – further conversation..."

...Three hours later, Mark was facing a disheveled man in his mid-fifties, with mouse-like facial features.

"Mister Joe Heller," Alex introduced his 'friend.' "Upon the investigation, we got few things straight. Mister Heller got the bike two days ago. He will tell you everything in his own words, right, Mister Heller?"

"Look, I am so sorry. I have a family to feed..."

"Never mind, Mister Heller. If you are completely honest with us, we will not press charges. Tell the FBI agent what you have told me."

"Sure, sir. As I said, I was walking through the woods, at about ten PM..."

"How precise is the time?" Mark asked.

"I always leave work at nine sharp. Takes me about an hour to walk home. I have no watch..."

"You always walk the same route?"

"Pretty much so, sir."

"OK, please continue."

"Then, I heard a noise in the woods, unusual."

"Unusual?"

"Oh, so to say. I hear noises every night. People chatting, kissing, having a fu... sex, I mean. Once, I stumbled upon a sado-maso. She was all in leather, with a riding stick, and he was handcuffed to a tree..."

"So, let me get it right, you like stalking lovers in the woods?"

"No, sir. Never!"

"Remember, we agreed to have one hundred percent honesty here," Alex pointed. "You stole the bike, ran from the Police, resisted arrest... Regretfully, we must send you to jail, after all..."

"OK, I confess! I do... watch... sometimes."

"Fine. And so, you were walking through the woods and heard something unusual..."

"Oh, yes... It was like somebody ripped heavy material. Trrr-rip! I thought: if lucky, it will be another sado-maso, or a wild sex. Ripping clothes apart, my favorite..."

"So?"

"So I pulled a bit back and went around the bush. You have to be very careful, or may get into trouble... Then, I opened the branches. Just a bit. And looked. One guy – on the blanket, the other – fu... I mean: had sex with the girl."

"Are you sure they had sex?" Mark asked. A witness with wild imagination – what could be worse?

"I meant: it looked like the guy was having her. Because the girl was on the ground, and he was sitting over. I thought: nothing special. Two guys sharing a hooker. One is already done and having a nap, the other decided to use the girl... through the rear. Make all the money worth, so to speak..."

"Wait! How could you make all these details? Was it dark?"

"No, sir. They had an electric lantern on the blanket..."

"Why did you think the girl was a hooker?"

"The guy moved up and down, but the girl was still. I thought: she doesn't like rear sex, but took the money – must do the work... But then, the guy stood up. He had a chunk of meat and a knife. They hadn't sex, he cut her bottom, see? I nearly shit my pants! First, he put the meat into a bag. On the ground, he had a bag, like a small backpack. He wiped the knife with a rag."

"What did he do with the rag?"

"Put it in the bag pocket, sir."

"And the knife?"

"I didn't see how he hid the knife. He was sideways to me, like this... Maybe, dropped in the bag too... Then, he walked to the blanket and clicked the lantern off."

"And then?"

"Went towards the road. I didn't want to have a better view, you understand..."

"How the man looked like?"

"All dressed in black. Black jeans, black canvas shoes. Black shirt. Long sleeves. Only his gloves were white. Like those work gloves, with little dots..."

"Did you see his face?"

"No. He had like a ski mask. A balaclava – that's what they call those. Also black."

"Was he tall?" Alex asked.

"Average, but well-built. About your size, sir."

"Anything else you mention?"

"No. I was too scared..."

"At what time did he leave the clearing?"

"Oh, I am not sure. Felt a long while to me. Now I guess – no more than five minutes. Ten – max."

"OK. You are telling me the killer left the clearing towards the trail around 10:05 or 10:15?"

"...Yes... I would say so. Yes."

"And what did you do next?"

"I waited for twenty minutes. In the bush. I was shit scared, the guy comes back and sees me... Then, I came out. Looked at the guy on the blanket. He was dead. Looked at the girl – she was dead too. Well, I started to the trail. Suddenly, – I saw the bike against the tree. I thought: the killer is on-foot. If I have the bike, would be far better chance not to meet him again."

"If you rode the same direction the killer went, you would overtake him on the bike. One trail: left or right. Fifty-fifty chance."

"He had a good head start: twenty minutes... Besides, I decided to go to Pineland instead of the dirt trail. So I took the bike and rode straight home."

"Did you see anybody on the road?"

"On Pineland. A couple walking hand-in-hand. Lovers..."

"How far from the clearing?"

"Half a mile, I suppose... Then, I came home: oh, shit! I have been in the woods, I have the bike. They will suspect me for a killer... The following day – the TV news... So I decided to sell the bike at once."

"You would have done yourself and us far better service if you rode to the Police Beat instead of hiding at home," Alex said, "but considering... I can't blame you..."

It took them another hour to prepare a statement and make Mr. Heller to sign it. They let the witness go, but not before obtaining and cross-checking his exact address.

"Not bad for a day of work," Mark concluded. "Now we have a reasonable lead to the female vic ID, but most importantly, this is the first time someone has seen our Butcher at the crime scene."

"Yes, better than nothing," Alex said. "The closest we ever had before, was that Indomerican couple, case number eleven. If I am not mistaken..."

"I remember it too. At that time, we couldn't connect the dots... Want to listen again?" Mark unlocked his computer screen. "Here it is, transcribed and back-linked to the audio..."

A woman voice came from the laptop speakers: "...a little noise in the bush. Somebody on the path in front of us. Radjeev said: we should wait. If they were another couple? Who would like bumping into each other? Then, we saw a man, he was alone, walking away from us. I told Raji: so weird..."

"Away from you? How far was he from you when he came to the path?" Mark's voice said on the audio.

"Not sure. Two hundred or two hundred and fifty feet? I'm not good at distances... Besides, it was dark. The path is all under the trees. Shady."

"Describe me how the man was dressed."

"Military style, khaki, nothing special. Trainers. Those sport shoes with textile top. I always wanted such for myself, but difficult to find even second-hand, – they don't make them anymore. And he had a little backpack. That's all."

"You said, it was weird? Because you expected to see a couple, and he was alone?"

"No, not that. How he walked."

"What was unusual?"

"He was not on the road! Walked on the grass, next to the bush. And so quiet. No footsteps. Apart from this, nothing unusual: not running or anything..."

Mark hit the stop button. "She gave a very generic description. Average height, about five-nine. Well-built. Her boyfriend's story matched perfectly. This could have been our man, what do you think, Alex?"

"Trained in special ops. Quiet walking and all. Or perhaps, he is very smart. Figured out he had been seen, yet cool enough not to run and even not to leave any footprints. Forensic-aware, exactly as your profilers said..."

After the interview with the Indomerican couple, Alan Moss had high expectations. The weather being reasonably wet, they might obtain the killer's footprints. The CSIs declared three hundred yards of the path, – from the place the couple saw the man to the nearest road intersection, – a crime scene. For three days, Natalie even slept in the woods. Together with Tom, she identified, photographed and cataloged an enormous number of distinct footprints: over one hundred shod and a couple of hundred barefoot, but two-thirds of the latter were clearly children-size. The vast majority of shoe imprints came from tire flip-flops. There were five or six imprints of army boots, and even one made by women dress shoes, but nothing was linked to a pair of trainers. Finally, Major Ferelli called the CSIs off. They were not even sure the man in khaki clothes and trainers was 'their' target! Now, the information obtained from Joe Heller made Mark believe they had abandoned their search too early.

# Chapter 8

Mark came home after nine, and the younger kids were already in bed. David-senior smoked his pipe at the front porch, while Michael, William, and Clarice had tea in the sitting room. Mary was not at home – she went to Baytown to visit her sister. A ride of over twenty miles from Sheldon-Res was a big undertaking, and Mary did such family visits only twice a year. Besides maintaining the family ties, the trip had more pragmatic targets: Mary planned to buy salt and seafood at the Baytown market, half-price than around their own neighborhood.

Clarice set a plate with cold dinner in front of Mark and went out to check the mailbox. She tumbled in, smiling, and proudly demonstrated Mark and the others a legal-size envelope.

"Guess what we have? All the way from the Pentagon! This must be Billy's compensation papers!"

William turned towards her voice: "Open it then!"

Clarice opened the envelope and extracted three stapled pages.

"Oh, it's just a letter..." She shook the empty envelope with a little disappointment, "nothing else inside."

"What did you expect, honey, – a bundle of cash? Read on," William said.

She started reading: "To: Private (PV2) William M. Pendergrass, the USACE, honorably discharged. Dear Sir. By the orders given to me from the office of the Deputy Chief of Staff G-1 Personnel of the United States Army, I am pleased to inform you that your application dated August 12, 2029, in regard to compensation for the injuries you have sustained at active duty while in US Army Corps of Engineers, has been granted a positive decision... Sounds cool, is it?"

"...Positive decision. The injuries, you have sustained, include, colon... Then, there are numbers... One. Amputation of right upper extremity through the shoulder joint, with satisfactory healing. Two. Amputation of left upper extremity at the level of... Why do they need to list all these? As if you forgot what's gone?"

"Such are the rules, honey. It's a legal document," William said. "You may skip the medical stuff. What do they say about tax?"

"About tax – nothing yet," Clarice continued. "Let see. A fragment wound of the left eye... Residual vision not exceeding three per cent... Here in brackets: three percent as a number... Oh! Here: a permanent and irreversible disability of seventy-nine per cent... Brackets, with a number... Why they write percent with a space? Per cent! Funny. Wait a sec! Why only seventy-nine? Take Paul, our neighbor across the road. He came back from Egypt completely blind, right? He boasted they gave him fifty-five percent!"

"So what? To be blind is not a piece of candy, I can tell you this much."

"And your buddy at the end of the street? Darrel or Damian, what's his name? The one who took you to do the Loop, when I had flu? He is without both hands... Just hands, not all arms, – forty-five percent! Fifty-five plus forty-five is one hundred. I don't get it! They should give you one hundred percent, pumpkin!"

"That is not how it works, honey," William said. "They count not what is gone, but what remains. It's called 'residual functions.' They explained this on the Dumpster. I have two legs, ten percent each. One hundred minus twenty is eighty. Obviously, they deducted one percent for the residual vision in my left eye. Twenty-by-twenty pixels, ha-ha... Fair enough..."

"Fair, not fair... Who is one hundred percent then? A Quad? No arms and no legs?" Clarice slapped the letter on the coffee table.

"Huh... One hundred percent is a total brain damage. Like a vegetable. Feed on one side and remove shit from the other. Make sure you do both from the correct end... Never mind, rules are rules. I'm happy with my legs and my seventy-nine percent. Please, read on. I'm dying to know how much they calculated..."

"OK, pumpkin... It says: rest assured that no effort will be spared to re-integrate military veterans into society. Please allow us to use this occasion to outline the opportunities that exist for your rehabilitation process... Here are the numbers again... One. The Presidential program Limbs for Life provides veterans with free access to modern prosthetic devices in the Government clinics..."

"Skip it. On the Dumpster, they told me I'm not qualified..."

"There is a half-page story here... Blah-blah-blah... Ah, it does say at the end: due to the nature of your injuries, the participation in the above program is not presently applicable... Regretfully... OK got it, moving on. Two. The State of Texas program New Hope Homes provides eligible disabled veterans with assisted living in the open type institutions... What does the 'open type' mean?"

Mike explained before William opened his mouth. "It means, Rissy, you may leave at any time. It has been scientifically proven that armless and legless people represent no danger to society. But in case you're total bananas, they lock you up in a completely different institution. The closed type! With guards and barbed wire."

"OK, got it. ...Open type institutions... Blah-blah-blah again. Peaceful surroundings... Recreation facilities... A medical practitioner on-site... Dedicated schooling facilities for children... Looks like a bloody advertizing."

"For complete idiots only," Mike said from the corner. "Our neighbor at the 'Fill told us about one such 'Home' in Waco, Texas. Imagine an old railway depot. In the middle of nowhere. Peaceful surroundings, my ass! Roughly, four hundred people. Three hundred and something cripples, three dozen women – wives, sisters, and such. Six dozen kids. For those, they make a school, – every morning, for one hour. No books. After the 'school,' the kids go around the city: collecting food scraps for dinner..."

"But you have to agree, if a vet has no family, the New Hope is not the crappiest option," Mark said.

"Never mind," William interrupted. "Ris, darling, please keep reading."

"OK, here at the end it says: because your disability exceeds the minimum requirement of seventy-five per cent, you and the immediate members of your family are eligible for placement in the New Hope Homes program."

"Good news!" William said. "Ris, we're moving into a shit-hole. Tomorrow! Besides the jokes: what do they say about money?"

Clarice shook her head and kept on reading: "...Three. The disabled veterans will benefit the most by living within their native communities. Supported by the family members and the neighborhoods, the veterans with most severe injuries can live happy and fulfilling lives and become useful members of the society. Blah-blah-blah. You may consider applying with any non-government and/or religious charity organizations, as well as any veteran self-support groups available in your place of residence. Kindly note that different charity organizations may stipulate different requirements for the participation in their support programs. The permanent disability, assessed with relation to the compensation payment hereby, does not guarantee your eligibility for any particular program in question..."

"We are already through two pages, and learned nothing new," Mike said. "I wonder why these Pentagon assholes waste all the time and all the money writing this garbage!"

"I don't think they wasted too much on this letter, Mike," Mark disagreed, "It looks like a computer-generated document. Boilerplates. I think they have special software: you type in the vet's name, and it spits out the entire letter, plus the addressed envelope."

"Let's get through it, please," William said. "How much did we get, finally?"

"OK, pumpkin..." Clarice was getting bored. "The following information outlines the terms and conditions of the lump-sum compensation payment, which will be provided to you by the US Federal Government, along with your rights for any further claims. Please read it carefully. The lump-sum payment constitutes the whole and final compensation for the above listed injuries, or any other medical or physical conditions, which may arise or be sustained as the consequence of these injuries. However, in case of a medical condition, which arises due to your past service and not related in any way to the injuries listed above, an additional claim may be made, providing satisfactory medical evidence exists to the latter... What a crap! They said: read carefully. I don't understand a word..."

"Simple enough, honey," William said. "For example, we had chem warfare training in the boot camp. Pepper spray, nothing special. Imagine, ten years from now, they discover this particular spray gives you a brain cancer. So if I develop a tumor, I still can come back and claim extra money. The faulty spray has nothing to do with the booby trap I've triggered."

"OK."

"Just the opposite, if I trip on the stairs, because I'm blind, and crack my head, because I have no arms to stop the fall. Then, I cannot claim more, because my broken skull is related to me blowing myself on that particular booby trap back in bloody Venezuela. Therefore, honey, don't hold your breath. You won't cash the remaining twenty-one percent of me. If I become a vegetable, you will have to look after me for the same money."

Clarice threw her leg over and sat on William's laps. Pressing her pregnant tummy over his chest, she kissed him in the forehead. "I live with you, no matter what, pumpkin. Although, please don't break your skull left and right and become a vegetable! Talking of which, your flip-flops are slippery like hell. If it rains, don't put them on. Remember, how you crashed last Fall?"

"You, honey, keep telling me about my 'flops every day. Read on!"

"OK, pumpkin." Clarice reluctantly got off William's laps. Right now, she wanted to throw the stupid letter to wait for another day and proceed with her usual hugging and kissing session.

"...Medical evidence exists to the latter... OK, here starts the interesting part. Listen, pumpkin... Your lump-sum compensation entitlement is calculated based on the peacetime off-duty daily allowance, corresponding to your rank and qualification at the moment of your discharge from the armed forces. In your case, such allowance equates to one hundred and forty-five dollars, zero-zero cents... It's like this in the text: cents. Who cares about the cents? Ricky read from his math book: at the shop, partially used pencils costs ten dollars and thirty cents, and new pencils – three times that price. How much is a cent, Rissy? I say: one hundred cents is one dollar. And he says: Rissy, you're talking garbage. At Bell's General Store, a new pencil costs three hundred dollars, and a used – one hundred. So one cent must be equal to three dollars!"

Mike giggled. "Next time, send our genius mathematician to me. Exactly my type of math."

Clarice looked into the letter. "But one hundred and forty-five a day is a bit low, pumpkin. Less than we collect for Salvation Way. I remember, you told me you were getting six or seven hundred a day in Venezuela."

William wiped his left eye with the stump. "Right. That's in the war zone and on-duty, honey. In the boot camp, we were getting two-ninety a day. One hundred and forty-five is exactly a half. Off-duty peacetime, as they said."

"OK, pumpkin... The payable daily allowance is prorated to the proportion of your permanent disability at the moment of the present assessment, or seventy-nine per cent of the full amount entitled, resulting in equivalent daily wage of one hundred and fourteen dollars, fifty-five cents... Again, number in brackets... One hundred and fourteen backs a day?"

"This is the trick they play while calculating the lump-sum compensations," Mark said. "A draftee private pay is not much, but on-duty, the pay doubles. Then, there are coefficients for war zones. While the soldier is deployed, his salary is pretty good. Besides, almost everything is for free: the food, recreation, uniforms, and so on. One would spend the money only on beer and girls. You can have a good life and save a bundle... But as soon as the draftee goes on disability, they whack the pay back down to the peacetime off-duty, and to add an insult to the injury, multiply it by the disability percent. Another trick they play, is to assume that this low-wage income is all a healthy man can get in his life-time, as if there are no better paid jobs than to be a conscript private."

Clarice nodded. "Yeah, it says exactly this... The lifetime income is calculated as the product of the equivalent daily wage by the earning period. The latter is assumed the number of days between the date of the discharge from the armed forces and the person's sixtieth birthday, rounded to the nearest one hundred, with the minimum of 200 days. In your case, it is established at 15,300 days, resulting in the estimated income loss of one million seven hundred and fifty-two thousand, six hundred and fifteen dollars, zero-zero C... And the same number – in brackets... Mark, how much do you get per year?"

"Now? Seven hundred and sixty thousand, but it's pre-tax. Slightly less than six hundred, after tax, Clarice," Mark said. He expected William's compensation to be not too generous, but was unpleasantly surprised with the figure far less than three million he estimated all way long.

"OK, this would be about the same Dad makes in three years," Mike said from his corner. "Not bad. It would take me at least five or six years to make the same bundle at the 'Fill."

William sat quietly, biting his lips. Surely, he also expected something far more significant.

"Cheer-up, pumpkin," Clarice said, "The glass is half-full! One-point-seven-five mil! Not a fortune, but better than nothing..."

"OK, honey, the glass is half-full, and I'm looking at the better side. Looking. With all my twenty-twenty vision. Read on."

"The lump-sum compensation of one million seven... The same number, pumpkin, mil-seven-fifty... Will be payable in four separate installments over eight-year period, each installment not exceeding four hundred and fifty thousand dollars. Please note that the permanent disability compensation payments are considered a taxable income, and as such... Ouch... It says, pumpkin: a taxable income... subject of tax deduction at the moment of payment..."

"Goddammit! First, they give you peanuts, and then – send a tax man after you!" In the remnants of William's left eye, teardrops glittered. Clarice hugged her husband from behind and wiped his eye with the palm of her hand.

"Calm down, pumpkin. Tax, or no tax? Does it matter? Good news, we get some cash before the baby comes out. Why are you so crazy about this 'compensation?' You're making enough in Salvation Way!"

Right: making enough! The damn Social Optimum again; perfectly optimal optimum: enough not to go hungry. From the official charity, expect nothing else.

Since February, Clarice frequently went to do the Loop in bare feet, and Mark suspected she was trying to delay the inevitable purchase of new footwear. Her only pair of sneakers, recently fixed by the market cobbler, quickly approached the end of use. Next time, there would be nothing to fix, the cobbler said. Every time William and Clarice amassed enough money, something more urgent popped up, and the new shoes would have to wait once again.

On several occasions, Mark tried offering Clarice money to buy spare sandals, and every time she childishly waved her hand and refused. Sometimes she pointed that walking barefoot was good for her spine, the other times she joked that always had a dream of being barefoot and pregnant.

Under big secret, William told Mark that Clarice visited the Thrift Store supervisor, but returned empty-handed. Obviously, the Social Optimum standards charted a no-pay pair of second-hand shoes in the unthinkable heights of immoral and uneconomical opulence. Or perhaps, Senior Officer Todd pointed out that with a barefoot guide, the Walking Cash Machine had better chance to get his Collector of the Month, had he not?

"How much is the tax bracket, Dad?" William asked.

"For four hundred and fifty K? Twenty percent. Would be going to twenty-two if above five hundred, which is why they chop by the installments every two years. Still, you will get three hundred and sixty grand in hand. Not too bad, considering..."

"OK, then. I guess it's fair. Everybody got to pay tax, after all," William nodded. "Read on Ris. Did they say how we extract all this cash out of the system?"

"OK, pumpkin. Right here... The first installment is available at the Department of Veterans Affairs Houston office, located at 2700, Post Oak Boulevard, Houston, Texas. The collection has to be made in person, with a valid photo ID... Shit! It means we have to go all the way to the Post Oak? No motor-bus this year. Omnibus – seven hours one way. It's a two-day trip!"

"For three hundred and sixty grand? Surely worth the visit," Mike said, "I can take a day off work and give you a ride on my tricycle. Better yet, we can borrow a two-seater bike, and Billy and I will go. You, Rissy, in no shape now to pedal all the way to the downtown, and will not be much use for safekeeping the cash either. In the downtown through the night, with cash in your pocket, – a risky business..."

Clarice nodded. "You have a plan for everything, Mickey. You are so practical! Billy and me – no place near. All theoretical. Hey, I liked the ride this morning! The collection was pretty good, and we even visited the Arcade! I'm thinking: we should do the Beaumont Loop every week. Can you give us a ride on your trike, can't you?"

"Weren't you tired, honey?" William asked.

"A little. But – never mind. They say: walking is good for your heart," Clarice said.

Mark chuckled. The next, she will tell us that riding Merry-Go-Rounds is good for pregnant.

"We can plan our Loop later. Read on," William said.

"Oh, OK. What are their working hours? ...valid photo ID, not... What?"

"What?"

"...Not earlier than the fifth of July 2033..."

"Two thousand thirty what?"

"Check yourself. Thirty-three!"

"How can I 'check?' With my twenty pixels? Read it again!"

"...in person, with a valid photo ID... the fifth of July 2033. The dates of further payments will be advised to you upon the initial installment collection..."

"It must be a typo..." William said. "Can you read again, slowly?"

"I've read it twice already! It says: 'the fifth of July 2033.' Besides, it says it's Wednesday! This year, the Independence is on Friday, so the fifth must be Saturday. It's not 2030, for sure."

Mike giggled. "This means, Rissy, you're not delivering your new baby with a bundle of cash in your naughty hands. No punch intended, but with your efficiency, you have plenty of time to pup another two, or even three, before the Pentagon gets Billy's payment in-order!"

"Never mind: nothing gained, nothing lost," Mark said philosophically. "The good news, you two will have enough cash to send little Davy to school. In 2033 – he will be exactly five. Bigger kids – higher costs."

"Is there anything else?" William asked. He sounded deflated.

"Yeah... The office working hours is from eight-thirty AM to four-thirty PM, five days per week. If you have any questions please do not hesitate to contact us at... Looks like a help-desk. We wish you all the best in the new life as a war-time amputee veteran. Sincerely, Lieutenant-Colonel such-and-such. Signature, date... That's all, pumpkin."

Clarice too had tears in her eyes. She dreamed so much about redecorating their room prior to the baby birth, and almost all the plans hanged on the long-awaited compensation payment.

William made a careful swipe with his armless torso and touched Clarice. The letter dripped to their feet. She wrapped her arms around the husband's shoulders, and they started kissing, with their usual intensity.

"Happy and fulfilling lives? Become useful society members, ah?" William said, momentarily separating from her lips. "Spot on! How about we go to bed now, honey? I can show you how to be fulfilling. And one very useful member too!"

# Chapter 9

The deputy in-charge of South Mesa Slum was a Norwamerican named Lisbet, or in already Americanized style, Liz Holstad. Quite unusual to see a woman in the Beat Deputy role, but Liz herself was rather an unusual woman. With his above-average height, Mark was shorter than her by good two inches. Liz had a hobby of collecting black belts – in all kinds of Asian martial arts practiced around Houston.

Despite presence of paved roads, the dwellings both sides of Mesa Drive were a slum not a bit less than GRS. Prior to the Meltdown, only Mexamericans or low-income Caucasians lived here: with the McCarty Road Landfill next door, the area was not prestigious. The older houses were wooden one-story, – the type carried partially assembled on a semi-trailer and mounted over concrete posts. Since the Meltdown, ugly sheds and shacks filled all the gaps between the original structures. Population density became enormous: hardly three thousand before the Meltdown, now the slum had at least twenty thousand inhabitants. Sewage systems here died ten years ago, so the residents converted storm drains into open sewers. The resulting stench was as bad as the appearance. The soil on the former lawns, drenched with spent oil and compacted to a concrete-like hardness, supported no vegetation, save for few patches of withered grass.

"How do you like our beautiful neighborhood?" Liz inquired, browsing through the address list, "Ah! If no objections, – we start at number five. A very interesting family! I have to check on them, anyhow."

She perched on her bike, Mark followed. Less than half a mile away, they dismounted in front of a one-story house. The house pediment looked like brick, but closer examination revealed a chipboard wall, covered on the outside with brick-textured decorative panels. Ramshackle sheds supported the house from both sides. Along the gutter-sewer, rusted hulls of partially disassembled cars piled up, in which two dozen barefooted and semi-naked toddlers played under a watch of several poorly dressed women.

"I hope, the girls are not asleep yet." Liz banged her man-like fist on the flimsy door. "Open up! Police!" She knocked a couple more times before the door opened. A middle-aged Caucasian woman, wrapped in a tattered blanket, stood at the dark entrance. Apparently, under the blanket she was naked.

"Oh, it's you, Lizzie," the woman yawned, "you have nothing to do but wake us up every other day? Want to scan our licenses again?"

"A standard procedure, my dear. You were late with payments last week, remember?" From her belt holster, Liz pulled an RFID scanner. Since the SSP laws in Texas, the Police got these tools from the Animal Control, along with the remaining stock of pet RFID tags, now used in licensed prostitutes.

"OK, fine," the woman turned her left shoulder towards the officer.

The scanner emitted a barely audible beep. Liz checked the screen and nodded. "Well done, darling. All paid."

"Can I go sleep now?" The woman reached over to close the door, but Liz put her boot at the threshold.

"Not so fast. Call the girls too. I have something else for you. This officer with me – is from the FBI."

Mark produced his badge.

"What: now the FBI is after us? We're all legal, no probs! Our licenses are paid, medicals done, and we don't push no drugs. If you're after my Betsy – what can I do? We're a family business! She is fourteen in November, I buy her a license, and everything will be proper."

"Take it easy," Liz said. "Special Agent asks you few questions, that's all. The faster you call the girls, the faster we will be gone."

"Freaking nice... Please come in. Make yourself at home," she pointed to a sofa in the smallish sitting room and shuffled down the dark corridor.

"Did I promise you fun?" Liz whispered to Mark, "The house is a well-known brothel. A family business! The mother, they call her Maman, and three daughters – are licensed hookers. The youngest is still underage and waiting for the fourteenth birthday, so Maman can buy her a registration chip. What a wonderful birthday present!"

The house inhabitants appeared in the doorway. Maman was still wrapped in the blanket, only adding a pair of bushed slippers. Two girls wore torn nightgowns. One gown had no right strap, proudly exposing a well-formed breast. The clothing of the third girl consisted of extra-short Denim cut-offs, while the fourth was wearing a bath towel – over her shoulder.

Liz repeated the scanning procedure and holstered the scanner, satisfied. "Thank you for paying your professional fees on schedule!"

"Now ask your questions, Mister Special Agent," Maman generously allowed, sinking into a chair.

Three girls sat on a threadbare carpet, while Betsy, the girl in shorts, propped herself in the door opening, gracefully toeing the frame. Mark heard of families, where parents sold child sex, but in his line of work he did not deal with such stuff too often. It took him few seconds to compose himself, then, he pulled out the victims' photographs and handed to Maman.

"Nope. First time I see them," she said, briefly glancing at the faces, and passed the photos to her daughters.

The girls scrutinized the pictures a little longer. The Nick Hobson's was discarded with no comments, but upon the look on the female victim the girl with a torn gown strap said, "I think I saw this slit-eye somewhere. Don't ask the name – I have no bloody idea. But I'm pretty sure she works other side of Mesa. Are you a real FBI or from Sex Trade Control?"

"The girl. Do you know who is pimping her out?" Mark asked.

"Nope. We're licensed and work from home. We don't mess with those slits. No gain, just bloody trouble..."

Ten minutes later, Liz and Mark stood at the gates of a workshop, sandwiched between two dilapidated houses. As in the previous place, rusty car frames stretched along the street. Instead of a playground, these vehicles served for a residence: in each of six broken vans lived a family. Due to the absence of better spot, their kids played right in the sewer.

"Knock, knock! Anybody home?" Liz shouted.

A man of thirty-five, in a grease-smeared coverall and tire sandals, appeared from the gates and scrutinized the bikes, "Wanna fix, Deputy? We have a discount for law-enforcing agencies!"

"No, the bikes are all-right," Liz said apologetically. "Are you Mike Hobson? Like in Mike Hobson's Mechanics and Welding?"

"Sure I am, ma'am," the man nodded, now looking at the bikes with regret. From the depths of the backyard, the rest of workshop personnel emerged: a man in his early twenties, also in a dirty coverall, but with no sandals, and two teenagers, just in shorts and extensively smeared with grease. Mark flashed his badge and pulled out the same photos.

One teen tried to reach for the photo, but the young man slapped the boy's hand, "Where are you going, greasy fingers? Look, don't touch."

"Sorry, officers, can't help," the workshop owner shrugged. "But if you need something welded – come only here! Ask anyone: Mike Hobson has the best arc welding this side of the 'Fill. Our generator always starts, and we never short of gas, unlike the competition. Oh, did I tell you the Police has a discount?"

"Not much for two addresses," Liz said after they left the workshop.

"It's only in TV re-runs the FBI looks so cool," Mark said. "Car chasing and gun fights! But in reality – the job is like this. Tons and tons of legwork, but not much excitement."

"Well, we don't chase cars now – that's for sure! When did you join the FBI?"

"Since 2006."

"Did you fire weapons often back then?"

"Once a week. Sometimes – every other day."

"Really? The Police service was probably much more dangerous than now..."

"Oh, it's not what I mean! We only shot at the firing range. Back then, FBI agents had to practice with handguns at least once a week. After the Meltdown, our big bosses decided we need to save ammo, so the firearms' practice was reduced to once per year. And then: sorry, no more. Now I clean my gun: the poor thing is twenty-three years old. She fired her last round nine years ago. If I need to use her, she may even blow the barrel..."

"The same story here. Last November, I tried to fire my TASER. All by the rules, shouted: on the ground, or I tase you! No reaction, so here we go. I press the trigger. Pop! The electrode comes out, slo-o-owly... And falls under my feet! Good, I didn't step on it, or it would electrocute me... So I threw the damn TASER away and used my baton."

"I'm sure you managed with flying colors," Mark smiled, admiring the policewoman's upper arm.

"What else could I do? Oh, we have arrived. Address number six from your list!"

This family rented a shed, but neither the Hobsons nor their landlords were at home. The street was unusually deserted, save for a bunch of toddlers playing in the road dust at the intersection, and a paraplegic vet in a wheelchair watching them from the shade. Just in case, Mark presented the photos to the vet, but he only shook his head.

At the number four, nobody was home too. A little soap factory next door emanated its aroma all over the street. A fat woman in rubberized apron, constantly stirring an evaporation tank, examined the photos and said: "No, definitely not the neighbor. She is an Asian type, Vietnamerican, I think, but nothing like the lady on your photo. About thirty, a single mom with two kids. Her husband was killed in action. In Libya... or in Saudi, not sure..."

They finally hit paydirt at address number seven. A hangar stood thirty yards from the former storm water reservoir, now half-filled with nauseating black sewage. Upon the corrugated iron, a proud inscription read: SIMPSON & KAUFMAN. Sewage Removal, Fuel, Fertilizers.

Mark checked his phone. "AFCO database has an industrial building address for a family. Strange, isn't it?"

"Not too strange," Liz said. "This particular enterprise – is special. Once you become a sewer man, – you're like a leper! Very few landlords want you for a tenant, so most workers end up living in here, next to their beloved shit..."

One of the two intrepid entrepreneurs, Mr. Kaufman, met Mark and Liz at the door of his office container.

"Jeremy Hobson? Yes, it's a whole-family contract. Also, his wife, and two maggots – whatever the hell their names are. Want to see them? Only – please kindly watch under your feet. The stuff we've got here – you know..." He sat down on a bench next to the container door, kicked off his tire flip-flops and inserted feet into high rubber boots.

"The stuff is too dense, so the sewers don't flow by themselves," Mr. Kaufman explained the manufacturing process. "We send scoopers to collect the crude and deliver it here."

"Scoopers?" Mark asked.

"That's how we call 'em here. A barrel on wheels, and a scoop. It's a big business! Some days, we have twenty-two crews working! They also can empty your backyard latrine, of course, for a moderate fee. How much crude do we collect every day? Seven hundred cubic feet! We treat it here and convert into fertilizer. Works marvels for plants! Perfectly harmless, – whatever paranoids say! Last year, we started another product line: fuel bricks. Did you know our processed dung burns better than coal?"

"Yes, I've seen these around," Mark nodded without much enthusiasm. He remembered the barefoot cobbler family in GRS. Clarice had tried the novelty fuel bricks once, but decided not to use them again. Despite being significantly cheaper than firewood or coal, the Simpson and Kaufman production generated suffocating smoke, and did not burn as long. The fertilizers were marvelous for plants, but not always good for humans. Horror stories circulated how entire families got very ill or even died after using such 'perfectly harmless' inventions.

"Let see if Hobsons are back," Mr. Kaufman looked around the busy yard, "oh, you're in luck!" He pointed to a refuse barrel and screamed, "Hey, Jeremy! This is after your ass. From the FBI!"

A man of thirty put aside his scoop on long wooden handle, removed his gloves and approached Mark and Liz. The other three family members followed: a short woman and two girls, about the age of Mark's Pamela and Patrick. Mister Hobson was in rubber boots and Army pants, and with a heavy apron over his naked torso. The woman and both girls worked in regular tire flip-flops. The girls' clothes, feet, hands, and even hair – were smeared with black refuse. No wonder local landlords were not too keen having these scoopers for tenants!

Mark pulled his badge. "Your daughters are not in school, Mister Hobson."

"Which one may accept scoopers' kids, anyway? As soon as the teachers learn what me wife and me self do for living, they say: sorry, no vacancy..."

"OK, never mind. It was an off-topic question: I'm not from Child Labor Control. Could you look these two photos for me?"

"No probs, sir. No, I haven't seen 'em before. Why, sir, you ask just me self and not the others?"

"We are checking everybody with surname Hobson. This man on the photo..."

"Wait... Mister Kaufman, sir! Could you come here, please?"

"Yes, Mister Hobson?"

"Remember, a week and a half ago, you asked me if any relatives in Houston?"

"Why I asked? A young man came to my office, looking for a job. His last name was Hobson! The given name?" He rubbed his forehead, "Nick, he said, if I remember it right. I thought, is he a relative to our Jeremy? May I look at your pictures?"

He scrutinized the pictures and tapped his fat finger at Nick Hobson's photo. "That's him, exactly. I said: do you understand what kind of work we do here? He said: I can do anything. Anything? Good man! We talked the pay. He agreed to our conditions. I said, no problem, we'll prepare a contract, you may sign and start from Monday. Only: you should buy yourself a pair of rubber boots. The stuff we've got here – you know... We have occupational safety regulations! Personal protective equipment and such. Boots are mandatory."

"Really mandatory?" Mark asked. Just few seconds ago, a team of teenage 'maggots' passed behind Mr. Kaufman's back pushing a cart full with manure. Out of six boys, only two were shod, and not in the mandatory rubber boots either, but in the common tire sandals.

Mr. Kaufman glanced at the flip-flops of Mrs. Hobson and her daughters and corrected his statement: "You may work in sandals too, but need to be careful... Anyway, that Nick Hobson... As I told him about the boots, he said: sorry, I forgot to inform you. I have – a prosthetic leg. So I said: why do you waste my time, young man? We have tried hiring vets before. Nothing but trouble, no good. You may slip, and whack! Head-first into crude, and the end of you as we know it. And I will get all the trouble, yes? I am really sorry, I said, but I can't employ a vet. He quickly said goodbye and left. Well, it's for his own good. The stuff we've got here..."

"When was this exactly, do you remember?"

"Just a moment..." He scratched his nose. "The sixteenth! Tuesday. On Monday, I take a day off – for Sunday. We work seven days a week! Yes, it was positively on Tuesday. Around noon. Eleven or eleven-thirty..."

"Two achievements," Mark commented after they said goodbye to the scoopers. "One, we learned that the male victim was looking for a job only ten days ago, or seven days before the murder. He was ready to accept anything, even work at a sewage plant. Taken together, this makes me conclude Nick Hobson came to Houston very recently – less than a month, I'd say. Two, the hookers told us the female victim may be an illegal SSP, working this side of Mesa Drive. But the latter – still pure probability, not a fact."

"I can't believe we've done so little for a half-day of work!"

"Better than nothing, Liz. I can follow these leads after lunch..."

The idea of following the leads was just a wishful thinking. After having a quick sandwich at a food stall, Mark rode to the Station and spent the next three hours putting his paperwork in order. These activities always took twice as long as anticipated. At three, they had a bi-weekly teleconference with the FBI Headquarters in Washington.

Back in 2020, having a chain of five dual murders, the FBI would parachute in a team of 'alan-pinkertons' to take care of all the legwork instead (but under direct supervision) of Mark. If no results in four weeks, the Bureau would deploy their on-duty gang of sherlock-holmes and doctor-watsons to do lateral thinking for you, plus a team of rambos – to apprehend the serial killer. Now, in 2030, all the Headquarters could offer was good advice over the video link. Washington did not run out of those pinkertons and rambos, but delivering them to the place of action became prohibitively expensive.

The teleconf went in its usual business-like manner. Mark and Alan presented the latest findings, the HQ experts gave their, quite irrelevant, opinions. The main discussion rotated around the female vic identification. Washington pointed out that even if the girl's name was discovered, it would probably add very little to the perpetrator's identity. The standard problem in such serial killer cases: the victims had no connection to the killer whatsoever, and were killed simply being in wrong place at wrong time. Despite having the killer's vague description from Joe Heller, the detectives had no other leads. At least, looking for the girl would give them something to do... Until the Butcher strikes again.

Suddenly, one man at Washington end raised his hand. Mark did not see him before this teleconference and assumed he was a supervisor, which just dropped in to kill his HQ boredom.

"Mister Pendergrass," the man said, looking away from the screen in strange reptilian fashion, "perhaps, you have been assigned to this case for too long."

"What do you mean, sir?" Mark replied. For too long, my ass! Twenty years ago, no agent would work on a serial killer case for more than six months, maximum a year. The FBI tried to preserve agents' mental health. Now, Mark had been working this case for twenty-two exhausting months! Nobody gave a damn about his mental health, there were not enough agents around.

"I read the reports, Special Agent-In-Charge," the man said, "two years is enough. We need to relieve you."

"Do you propose to send another agent in? To help Agent Pendergrass?" Benito asked.

"That's a 'maybe', Major. For starters, we can put the case under the Harris County Police jurisdiction."

"With all due respect, sir, how is this going to help the investigation?" the Station Chief exploded. "I don't need to inform you how thin we are stretched here."

"It may not help the investigation, but may help the FBI budget. I doubt the FBI needs a permanent agent in those two districts, anyway."

"Does it mean I'm dismissed?" Mark asked.

"Not yet, Special Agent. Not yet. But you'd better speed up the motions."

"We are doing everything we can..." Benito started.

The man lifted his palm off the table. "Stop it, Major. Apparently, not everything. What about volunteers?"

On the teleconference screen, one of the Washington experts raised his eyebrows and rolled his eyes, indicating to Houston participants he strongly disagreed, but was too afraid to voice his opinion.

"But, sir..." Alan said.

"No 'buts,' gentlemen. I put it in simple terms for you. Two calendar years from the case number one, or the next Butcher's strike, whichever comes first. After that – the HQ will make tough decisions. Show us some action, Mister Pendergrass..." – and the screen went blank.

"Who the hell is this asshole?" Alan inquired.

"No idea. He didn't introduce himself. Probably he thinks he's such a big shot everybody must recognize him instantly. Do you know him, Mark?" Ben said.

"No," Mark said. "He's from the new-generation Washington clowns. Got into the HQ without being a field agent for a single bloody day! Do you have a deputy position for me, Ben? I can be a clerk too. Or even a janitor."

"Don't you freaking joke like this, dude!"

"So, what do we do? Call the volunteers and show some action?" Alan asked.

"You know better than me, Alan. It's no good," Ben said.

No good, Mark thought: what do I do if they kick me out of the FBI? Should I open a carpenter shop in my garage? Hey, I enjoyed working with wood and made stools and shelves for neighbors! But the income would be a fraction of what he made as an FBI agent...

"All-right, gents," Mark said with resolution of a nearly-dead man, "Let's go back to work."

# Chapter 10

The next morning, when Mark arrived to the Station, Alex Zuiko waited at Mark's desk. By the look of Sarge's red eyes and unshaven face, it had been an all-nighter.

"If you have a minute, Mark, I can introduce you to Miss Jen Lien. She was kind enough to join us. Last night, I made my overtime worth every single dollar..."

"How did you manage?" Alan and Alex were resourceful investigators, but Mark did not expect this happen so fast.

"An old friend of our good doctor was passing by. Alan convinced him to do a little job for us."

"An old friend?"

"Yes! No names... It's irrelevant... Our volunteer used to be a stock broker. After the Meltdown, he became a con artist. Which is almost the same line of work, considering. He's in nearly full retirement now, but likes to pull one or another of his old hustles. Even for the Police, and totally free of charge. He does it for the adrenaline rush. Loves the art, I guess."

"And what hustle has he pulled this time, Alex?"

"The con artists call it: Now, You Are in For a Murder. Only instead of the con crew, the real Police officers played this time. Based on her criminal record, Alan figured out our Jen is too greedy. So the set up came like this: his con artist friend, with little make-up and rigged with a microphone, comes across and asks the pimp for a girl. Miss Lien runs all her usual checks, but in such a craft she like a school basketball team against the NBA. Anyhow, she is a pass girl, so has to deliver the client to her unlicensed hooker, to get the pay and introduce our man to the 'friend,' the usual drill. On a deserted street our con artist simulates a stroke. A little piece of plastic straw in his mouth, with food coloring and soda sealed in. Yellowish bubbles from the mouth."

"Obviously, Lien took it for a real thing..."

"Who wouldn't? This man is a bloody professional. I almost shit my pants when I heard his agony wheezing in my earphone! Like: he is an old chap, and this stroke is for-real! Anyway, if our Miss Lien was any good, she would call for help. Or if she was a scary-cat, she would run away. But hey, she is neither good nor shy! Greedy, exactly as we foresaw. Our man was continuously flashing his gold and his wallet. So Lien figures out the man is dead anyway, and decides to relieve him of all the expensive things. In the Heaven or the Hell, a gold watch is wholly unnecessary. Besides, she doesn't need to share her take with any other girl... So in the following three minutes, she makes a quick profit and runs away. Not too far, – straight into my long arms of the law!"

"And?"

"She was darn bold, I admit. Said: no probs, Sergeant, I'm legal. – Trust you, Miss, but can I scan your RFID anyway? So I pull the scanner, it plays 'ta-da' and says: license not current. OK, try again. 'Ta-da.' I rigged the scanner, see? After that – all by the Standard Operational Procedure. I stand her against the wall, call a female officer, and we pat her up. Here come: our handsome wallet full of cash, our smart-phone, the golden male watch, the ring, and the chain. O-la-la! The watch has a little engraving on the back: To Charles van de Geer for 25 years of service, and the same name – on the phone's welcome screen! Houston, we have a problem! You, Miss, – can't be possibly Charles van de Geer. The scanner says your name is Jennifer."

"Nicely done!"

"Our con artist is a pro, as I told you. She's obviously in complete denial, says the client gave it to her, or the stuff belongs to her uncle's grandpa, or something along these lines. I say: no problems, enter the password to the smart-phone. If the phone unlocks, I cut you a ticket for the late tag payment and let you go continue your busy night shift. But the phone, darn, – doesn't want to unlock. Miss, it seems you're suffering from severe amnesia. I simply can't leave you on the street in such condition and must book you in. We send her to the slammer. One hour later, I get her out and tell her: the diagnosis is crappier than we initially thought, Miss. It's not amnesia, after all. A body has been found. Charles van de Geer! Now, you are in for a murder. She went into a panic mode and started, like: he was already dead, he was dead! In front of CCTV... Stupid. So now she is firmly on the hook, marinating in the cell. I gave her a hint she might get twenty-five to life."

"This will not hold in court. Our con man is alive."

"Alive, well, and already on the military convoy to his home in Corpus Christi. But Miss Lien doesn't need to know, does she?"

"Corpus Christi? Our Doctor Moss has very rich men amongst his friends. A civilian, getting a ride from the Pentagon? Must cost a fortune!"

"Our con man is traveling no-pay this morning. The miracles still happen, even with the sergeants who run these goddamn charters. Sometimes, they get very altruistic. Amazing, what a second-hand Colonel uniform can do if applied properly..."

"A second-hand Colonel uniform? Cool... OK, never mind your con stock broker, whatever. Let's go have a nice talk with Lien. Good cop – bad cop?"

"No, this particular hustle recipe is little different. Instead of a good cop and a bad cop, we're two bad cops: one from the Police and one from the FBI. You play, naturally, for the FBI: you're crooked, but cautious; and I will play for the Police, as I'm plain crooked..."

They walked to the back of the Station, into the interrogation room. The on-duty deputy soon brought in the unlucky prostitute. Her face was covered with leaking eye shades and smudged lipstick. She probably already felt very scared, but Alex was not the one to leave the intimidation business unchecked. Just before the deputy opened the door, he started explaining Mark, as if continuing a long story: "...why the hell did you stick a lady into the male camp? The Corrections' man says: hey, what d'ya call a lady? She's a goddamn SSP! If the girl is a registered hooker, this is the only way. How else can we keep our men in-check? I say: but the girl died. Didn't your boss rip your ass for a dead convict? And he says: nobody said nothing, Sarge. A hooker is a hooker. She probably enjoyed sleeping with fifty boys every night, and who cares?" Alex turned to the door and made it look like he just saw Lien and the deputy entering, "oh, sorry, bro. I was telling Special Agent about my trip to the Corrections... Never mind. Please leave Miss Lien with us, thank you..."

The deputy shut the door, and Sarge pointed to the chair, "please have a seat, Miss Lien." Then, he turned to Mark and continued his 'story': "and so he says, the hooker eventually got pregnant, but this is a big no-no. No problems. The convicts take an aluminum spoon from the canteen, and a candle. Make the spoon very hot. Sterilization of sorts. And stick the spoon into... Oh, never mind. Let's finish with Miss Lien quickly, and then I'll tell you the rest – in full detail."

"OK, Sergeant," Mark played along.

Alex turned back to the hooker. "Sorry for making you wait, Miss Lien, this is Special Agent Pendergrass, from the FBI." Mark demonstrated his badge.

"Perhaps, I shouldn't be talking to you. I wanna a lawyer," Lien said.

"As you wish, Miss. Just remember, I have read your rights, and you already have been talking. We have this all on camera, don't we? You will need some serious lawyer to pull you out of this crap. A real shark! The cheap one will make the things only worse."

"I'll get one. I have money..."

"E-e! Reality check! These shark lawyers cost per hour more than you make per week... Basically, we want to do it as easy as possible. I will give you a list, and you will memorize all six cases."

"What six cases?" Lien was flabbergasted.

"You see, we have six cases – with the same M.O.," Sarge explained, "A rich man gets himself a hooker. Ka-boom, and we find a dead body. Poisoned and robbed. 'Cause we are certain you did Mister Charles van de Geer tonight..."

"I don't know no Geer!"

"This is not what you said earlier. In front of the camera. Anyway, lady. I don't need that video anymore. The CSIs are starting on the body. Your fingerprints are on the dead man's belt buckle and on his shirt button."

"I told you, he was dead already!" She started sobbing, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand and smearing more mascara over her cheeks, "Yeah, I took the phone... And the other things... But I didn't... didn't kill him!"

"Oh, darling, stop it! No need to cry." Mark played his 'crooked FBI man' role, "what done is done. You didn't want to kill the man, it just happened so. Tell us what you used. Sleeping pills? Ice?"

"I don't use nothing! I told the Sergeant..."

"What about the crack cocaine we found on you?" Alex interjected.

"What crack cocaine?"

Alex triumphantly placed an evidence bag on the table. Inside, – a tiny package with white powder, dusted for prints. "This crack cocaine, lady."

"This is not mine!" She yelled.

"It's yours now," Sarge said, "you wrapped it. See that print on the scotch tape?"

"You... You! Shit! You wiped my fingers before deputy took the prints! You had that tape! In the towel! Mister... what's your name? Pendergrass! This Sergeant! He got my print on this – already at the Station. I had no crack on me. I swear to God!"

Mark made an unhappy face. "Did you do it again, Sarge?"

"Well, sorry. The bitch had no drugs on her! What do you want me to do?"

"I told you one hundred times, you bloody clown. Do whatever. Just: I don't! Need! To know! OK, Sarge, I will show you one last time how to do it properly." He turned to Lien, "I am so sorry, lady. You are probably mistaken. There was no scotch tape in the towel. No tape at all. Just to make sure you have absolutely no drugs on you, I will call our Police doctor – right now. He will check you... How to put it politely... From inside. All by the rules; we will have the witnesses, and a video camera, and take all the photos. I have to tell you right away: if the doctor suddenly finds the drugs (and he will, trust me on this, all our doctors are very good) – it will be an absolute proof. Should we call the doctor, or bravely assume that the little bag on the table is yours and save you all the trouble?" Mark started enjoying being 'the crooked FBI man.' Lien looked at them in disbelief. She was not crying anymore. She was horrified.

"OK, lady," Alex waved his hand as if inviting Lien to forget the horrifying doctor check idea, "crack or no crack, what's the bloody difference? With your dead client – we have an ironclad case. The jewelery, the telephone, the fingerprints... If I were you, – I would make a deal."

"What deal?"

"You plea guilty of a manslaughter. Let's say the stuff you used was of poor quality. You bought the cheap unchecked shite from an unknown dealer. Happens. Six accounts of manslaughter will put you in a labor camp for just fifteen years."

"Six? Six accounts?" Lien whispered.

"And how many do you expect, darling? We can't have these cases open forever! Sheriff is unhappy. District Attorney is unhappy. Now, the FBI is unhappy. It's good, Mister Pendergrass and our Station Chief are old friends and don't blame each other..."

"I am not sure we should pin all six on her," now Mark had to play the 'cautious' part of the crooked FBI Agent role. "What if she makes a statement on camera, but later – denies the other five cases?"

"No, sir. She will do nothing stupid. If she does not plea for the six cases of manslaughter, we will go for a first-degree murder. Premeditated! Six accounts! She will get twenty-five to life. No parole."

Alex turned to Lien. "Let me explain you the difference between the fifteen and the twenty-five, baby. The fifteen – you will be doing in a female labor camp. It's no spa resort, but almost survivable. If you behave yourself, they let you go after twelve years or so. The twenty-five is not only ten years longer than the fifteen. You're a registered hooker. Because of such a predicament, darling, if you go twenty-five without the possibility of parole, you won't be in a female camp. I was just telling Mister Pendergrass. They have a new system, apparently. You will end up in a male camp. The Federal Coal Mines! They run convicts pretty darn hard in those coal mines. Even the bunks are underground – easier to guard, anyhow... Are you ready to serve fifty men every day and do regular abortions – with a hot aluminum spoon? Let's put it this way: the chances you survive all twenty-five years are slim to none. If you do – you come out a mental and physical cripple. Got the picture, young lady?"

Lien nodded quietly.

"So if you got it right," Sarge continued, "be a good girl and let's start memorizing the other five cases. Mister Pendergrass will check you, and then we record your statement on video."

"Wait a moment," Mark said, "I'm just thinking, Sarge. We can't pin all six on her."

"Why not, sir?"

"What if it's not her? Imagine, she is gone to the camp, but we get a case number seven? The same M.O.?"

"Come on! You will lie something to DA. No big deal."

"No. I don't like it. The case number seven, I can play around it, but if somebody else gets poisoned and robbed with the same M.O., – shit will hit the fan!"

"You are right, sir. Sorry, I didn't think about it. We need a backup."

"Miss Lien," Mark said in indecisive tone, "you're working under Joe Vo, are you?"

She nodded.

"We have information the killer is one of the Joe's hookers. Let's assume for a split second, it's not you. If you tell us everything about Joe Vo, and specifically about all the call girls who work for him, we only pin on you one manslaughter. You will get five years, max. You go to the labor camp, and the killings stop – great. If the killings continue, we have our way out. Tell the DA you're a copycat."

"I... I told you, sir. No idea why this Charles, or whoever, – died on me. I just took his things... And I have nothing to do with any other killings."

"OK, I tell you more. If you give us a strong lead to the actual killer of the other five men, I can use my good relations with the CSIs and ask them to go easy on our evidence. They can close their eyes on the fingerprints, for starters. As for the wallet and the gold – we put them back on the stiff. You will be free to go."

"...OK, sir. I... don't want a labor camp... Even for five years."

"If you really want to skip the camp, tell us everything," Alex said, "every bit of info on Joe, please. Everything on all his girls. I mean: everything. Names, addresses, habits, how much they charge, what lipstick they use, and so on."

"I tell you, Sarge, and Joe will give me a knife..."

"I would not worry about Joe, young lady. Whatever you say, stays between us. He will never know, unless you decide to tell him yourself. Besides, I am not sure if a twenty-five in the Federal Coal Mines is any better than a knife. At least, with the knife, you die fast. And – reasonably painless."

"OK, I will tell you, but..." she attempted to bargain. She was visibly in better spirits now. It was the entire trick: first explain that the situation is hopeless, and then – give hope, without actually promising anything.

"No 'buts,' lady. Start singing. The camera is rolling now," Alex pressed a button on the remote.

The hooker sheepishly nodded and started her 'song.' She described how the organization worked. Joe Vo had eight pass-girls under him, but the entire structure contained more than one hundred hookers. Jen Lien herself controlled eleven unlicensed girls in three locations both sides of C.E.King Parkway. She was dropping the names and addresses, while Alex and Mark jotted their notes, asking clarifying questions from time to time. The video would be transcribed and passed on to the real Sex Trade Control for extra intel, but considering the way they made the hooker talk, none of this could be admissible in courts.

Jen moved on giving information on the hookers she controlled personally and suddenly mentioned, "one more under me, but she is gone now..."

"How is she 'gone?' Run away?" Alex asked.

"Killed. With a client. A serial killer, they said. Your FBI boys should know."

"What was her name?"

"Mel."

"Surname?"

"I'm what – a notary public? Sorry, Sarge. I mean: in our work, we don't use surnames. Bad for business..."

"What's her home address?"

"In the freaking Slum, north of Sheldon-Res. I didn't care much from where she is from, as soon as she's in my chicken ranch each afternoon."

"What happens if your girl doesn't show up?"

"For your education, Sarge, there is a thingy. It's called telephone! Besides the jokes, usually I pass the word to Joe, and he sends his 'boys'," she expressed the quotation marks with her fingers, "they are paid to fix such things. Why should I do it myself?"

"How do you know Mel is dead?"

"Joe saw something on TV. He told me: go to the bloody funerals and find out. Sure, it was her. The casket was shut, but I saw the photo."

"What about her client?"

"A vet? With a prosthetic leg? Made him too. The boy I brought to Mel on the evening she was killed. Interesting, he asked Joe for this particular girl. I want only Mel, he said. Didn't want to see any other. He didn't bargain and paid the right price, and Mel was free, so I said: no probs, it's a deal. A bit strange, they ended up in the bloody forest. As if he didn't want to use the room."

"Did you ask the vet's name?"

"Nick, he said. I didn't ask for the surname. Only at the cemetery I saw it: Hobson. Yeah, sure..."

Alex reached into his pocket and pressed a button on his phone. Thirty seconds later, the phone played the Nutcracker theme, and Alex jolted to the corridor as if to take an urgent call. Immediately after, he knocked on the glass and waved Mark to come out. A trick they sometimes played if they needed to cut an interrogation short.

"Do you think she is telling the truth?" Mark asked Alex after tightly shutting the room door.

"We didn't tell her anything about the funerals' video. She volunteered these details herself."

"Right. So we confirm the female victim was a hooker, and the late Nick Hobson – her client. But we still haven't got the girl's surname or address. Do you think Miss Lien knows them, but doesn't want to tell us?"

"Not really, Mark. She's right. In this type of business, the surnames and addresses – are a liability. The less you know, the better you sleep."

"Should we approach this Joe Vo fellow?"

"If I were you, I would skip on it for now. He is way smarter than his hookers."

"I agree. He will make a square face and tell us that all this is a vivid imagination of Miss Lien. Then – will ask for a lawyer. I can bet you my right arm, he has a real shark at his full service. We only should approach Vo if we get stuck completely. She said, Mel lived in GRS. Let's do this: you continue with Lien for another hour, then go have some sleep. Are you off-duty today? Meanwhile, I call Kim. It seems we have to make another walk around his beat."

"Sounds like a plan. What exactly will you look for in the Slum?"

"I'll make decision while on the bike. For starters, we can get the list of registered SSP and show them vic's photo. If a hooker in the Mesa Slum somehow remembers her face, the hookers at Garret Road may know her too..."

"Should I let Lien go? The deal is a deal, after all."

"Will Lien talk? To the others, I mean?"

"Don't think so. She sang us enough on video. If she admits this conversation in front of her buddies, she will be history in no time..."

"OK, then. Ah, one thing. The female convicts being sent to the Federal Coal Mines... Is it true, or just – your imagination?"

"Just imagination. Still, the discussion is ongoing if they should collect volunteers from the female correctional facilities and open regulated brothels in the male camps."

"What for?"

"They want to make sure the convicts cut enough coal. It seems, the sticks stopped working, so they want to try a carrot – for a change..."

Mark returned to his office and dialed Kim's phone.

"I am on patrol, sir. Please come directly to the office, we have... It should be open," the young Deputy sounded strangely shy.

# Chapter 11

The Beat door was unlocked, as promised. Mark stepped through the door and whistled in disbelieve. The tile floor, which was covered with usual grime during his last visit, was now perfectly shiny. The deputies' desks looked somewhat neater. A low coffee table was set against the wall, and the former pile of dog-eared reports had migrated to it from the desks. A standard-issue Police tablet, with a USB keyboard and a mouse, had been parked next to the pile.

"May I help you?" A head appeared from behind the desks. "Oh, you must be from the FBI? Kim called about you."

Mark recognized her instantly. This was the legless vet from the roadside Korean cafe. Now he spotted the same battered skateboard, two wooden blocks, and the red donation bucket – neatly parked under the coffee table. The girl crawled from behind the desks. Instead of the full service uniform she was wearing back at the cafe, today she had dark-blue Navy T-shirt and utility trousers, crudely converted into shorts.

"Yes. Mark Pendergrass," Mark replied, extending his arm for a shake. "Back at the cafe, we didn't ask your name..."

The girl shook Mark's hand. "My name is Katherine Bowen, sir. Call me Kate."

"Please drop 'sir' and call me Mark."

"Did I scare you by jumping from under the desk? It wasn't a prank. I was sorting out the mess in the drawers..."

"I just somehow expected to see Deputy Tan here. Kim didn't tell me who would be in-charge of the Beat today."

"Oh, I'm not in-charge... Just helping out. Kim said, he is back in ten minutes. If you don't mind, have a seat."

"I guess, the clean floor is your achievement," Mark said. "This office had not been as neat from the time it was commissioned."

"Partially. Kim asked if I can help with the paperwork. My part of the deal: do the floors first. At least, now I can move around without getting all sorts of crap on my pants. As for their case reports, amazing how much mess they accumulated."

"Ah! So Kim invited you to work at the Beat as an unpaid volunteer."

"More or less."

Mark smiled. "Back at the cafe, when Kim said: 'see you around,' I didn't realize he had such a brilliant idea!"

"Oh, it happened by pure chance," she smiled back.

"By pure chance? The same as your trip to Sheldon-Res?"

"Nearly so. The same day we met at the Korean place, I was returning home from the Loop. On my skate, and on those dirt paths, it takes a lot of time... Suddenly, Kim overtook me on his bike. He stopped and asked if I wanted a ride home. I did not mind. The skate wheels are too small and no good in the mud. He asked: where do you stay? So I told him: renting a corner, two hundred bucks per week. He said: want to come live with us – for free? His brother married last year and moved out. We can give you an entire sofa, Kim said. And I said: I'm halved; any half of your sofa can do."

The door opened, and Deputy Kim walked in, breathing heavily from the bike ride. "Mister Pendergrass! Sorry I kept you waiting."

"I am not in-hurry. Your new girlfriend and I had a nice chat!"

Kim flushed, but said nothing. Behind his back, Kate smiled and nodded.

Mark pulled out the postmortem photo of the female victim. "New developments on the Monday case, Deputy. This lady was an unlicensed prostitute, and Nicholas Hobson, the male vic, was her client for the night. The girl worked around South Mesa Slum, the pimp's name is Joe Vo. We have indications the girl's residence at your beat, Kim, but no exact address. Tons of legwork ahead! See, the vic's first name is Mel, but the surname – we don't know. The CSIs can run a name search, but there will be too many possibilities. Mel may be short of anything: Melissa, Melanie, Melody, Pamela, and so on..."

"Amelia?" Kate waved her hand.

"Well, 'Amelia' also fits the bill. Why are you asking?"

"I saw this name and the surname together – on the same piece of paper: Amelia Hobson! Just a second..." From the chair, she reached to the desk and passed Mark a manila folder.

UNSOLVED 2027, Mark read. The report Kate had mentioned was the fourth from the top. A dual rape. The victims: Amelia and Jasmine Hobson.

"Oh shit! It's the place Kim and I visited on Wednesday," Mark scratched his head. "The hut was empty. We talked to the neighbor, an old military man. To our excuse, we were looking for a male vet, and not for a prostitute... The name is a perfect match. Obviously, it's a bit freaky: the hooker's surname is the same as the male victim's... Still, Natalie said, the DNA profiles are different, so the surnames may be a simple coincidence."

Kim nodded. "No way they're direct siblings. The female is clearly Asian, and the male – White. They can be step-siblings, and from different parents, but why would a stepbrother go to a pimp and pay to hire his own stepsister for a night?"

"We should revisit the place at once. If it's a dud, we always can come back to the Beat and decide to do something else. But if we are lucky, it saves us many days. Good somebody started doing the Beat paperwork, after all."

Kim stood up. "OK, let's ride on, sir."

Kate gave them a mockery salute. "Good luck, gents! Myself, I will lock the Beat and go do some skating. If I fall behind my daily collections, the Salvation Way wrestle my bucket away. Besides, I desperately need a smoke, – and better not here. The smell is no good for the Police reputation."

"Your To-Ma-Gochi again?"

"No choice, Mark. My legs are killing me. Especially the left foot. A phantom pain. Today is a bit worse than usual. The weather is changing..."

Mark nodded. William also complained about feeling his missing arms once in a while.

After Mark and Kim jumped on the bikes, Mark asked: "Did your Mom give you hard time for bringing a skate-bound legless girl home?"

"As a matter of fact, she did," Kim flushed once again, "But knowing my Mom, she agreed on Kate staying with us far too easily..."

"Not a bad choice. I like her," Mark said. "Your Beat is long overdue for the third deputy position. What's the latest estimate for the Slum population – sixteen and a half thousand?"

"Almost seventeen."

"I can talk to Major Ferelli. No chance the Sheriff's Office agrees to have another deputy in here, – the budgets are bloody tight. But for an assistant position: a civilian, and a vet, – you may get lucky. The pay is a joke, but still more than Kate collects on her Salvation Way program."

I must talk to Ben today, Mark noted. While I am still in the Bureau, and not an unemployed former Agent-in-Charge.

Soon later, Mark and Kim stood in front of the same little hut of the Hobsons family, still unlocked and deserted. The old man, who was telling them about his military service in Kuwait, sat at the same spot, across the narrow muddy path, which served here instead of a proper street.

"If you don't mind, can we ask you few more questions today?" Kim asked.

"Never mind, never mind, gentlemen. Ask your questions. Fire away. While I was in the Army..."

"Does this girl look like your neighbor from that hut across the street?" Mark pulled out the female victim's photo.

"Just a second, gentlemen," he searched his pockets and finally shouted into the open door of his own little hut: "Isabella, Isabella, darling, have you seen my reading glasses?"

"My eyes are not as good as they used to be," he admitted to Mark. A moment later, a mid-aged woman appeared, holding the requested optical instrument. The spectacles lacked both temple tips and had only one, and very thick, lens.

"You're asking the wrong person to check your photograph, officers," the woman said. "My father's eyesight is not just 'not as good as it used to be.' It's more honest to say: 'non-existent'!"

Kim gave Mark a flabbergasted glance. The last time, they automatically assumed he saw the opposite side of the narrow path from his permanent observation post! To their excuse, the old man was so locked on his Kuwait military adventures, the short interview back on Wednesday was not too easy.

"Could you check the pictures for us, Madam?" Mark handled the woman the photographs of Nick Hobson and the female victim.

The woman picked the prostitute's photo right away. "This is our Amy all-right, but now she prefers everybody call her Mel. Strange, she is not here today. She is usually at home till about lunch time. A night shift, she says. Hence you've asked... I have not seen her lately! Now, you made me wonder... The other three: the second girl, Jass, and two boys – they leave at sunrise and come home after dark. But – I have not seen light in their hut either. Not as if I looked on purpose, if you understand what I mean. We don't spy on our neighbors!"

"Of course. Have you seen the man at all?" Kim asked, pointing to the second photo.

"I am not sure. A man visited them last week. I think, it was around Thursday, but I can't tell if the man from your photo or not. Would not lie to you, officers."

"Mel and Jass. Do you know their full names, by chance?" Considering their blooper three days ago, Mark was careful not to miss any facts.

"Amelia, and Jasmine, I believe."

"Amelia and Jasmine Hobson?"

"Amelia is not quite Hobson. She often goes under a different surname. 'Han,' 'Khan,' or 'Khai.' Asian. No idea how it's spelled."

"In the AFCO database this address listed for Hobsons, not Khans. That's why we came here first place," Mark pointed out.

"The younger kids are surely Hobsons. This surname is from their father, – he was White. Mel is his stepdaughter, and her dad was Asian."

"Do you know this family quite well?"

"We are not too curious about the neighbors, if it's what you mean. But – cannot live thirty feet away for ten... no, already eleven years and don't know them at all."

"Tell us."

"We moved to Houston in 2019. From New York, originally. And this family – also from the Big Apple. Robert and Rae-Ann Hobson, they both were strips. I mean: in the stripping business."

Mark nodded. The so-called stripping companies were booming for several post-Meltdown years. As the commercial property market collapsed, many office buildings, especially downtown high-rises, stood unoccupied, or worse: attracted squatters, winos, or drug addicts. The stripping workers, or strips for short, demolished the unwanted structures and recycled all more or less usable materials within.

"Your father told us Rob Hobson was killed in an industrial accident, is it right?" Mark asked.

No wonder. Right after the Meltdown, the safety rules were strict, but the collapsing economy changed it overnight. The strips stopped using mechanical lifting gear, coveralls, and other 'unnecessary stuff'. Their methods became crude and dangerous: after stripping off wires, pipes, glass, and timber, they cut steel with gas torches and pushed scraps out of the windows. Accidents were common, with the fatality score running into several hundreds per year. Never mind: the business was lucrative, and the pay was better than at digging landfills or growing veggies. For every dead strip, there were two new ones! The late Rob Hobson was a lucky man if he survived in this business for whole seven or eight years!

"Yes, that's correct. Rob had an accident in 2024. Rae-Ann went into depression. She died a year and a half later, in 2026. The doctor said: lung cancer – from asbestos. Myself, I think it's from her depression. So they say, the mental state and the immune system are linked."

"So the kids were left orphans?"

"Yes. Two girls and two boys... Amelia, she is the eldest, now nineteen, I reckon. As I said, she is from Rae-Ann's first marriage, before Rob. Then, the second daughter, Jasmine. She's about fifteen now. Two boys: Milton and Albert. They are ten and twelve, if I am not mistaken."

"Ten and twelve? How did they get into the AFCO database? You, sir," Mark turned to the old man, "you said, they went to register? For the Army?"

"Yes, they went to register, young man! If I told you they went to register – they went to register." The Kuwait hero was obviously aggravated his daughter told the officers about his poor eyesight.

"Ah, it must be the local AFCO initiative," Kim said, "It started last year: once per month, on Sunday, half a day, with a free lunch. The kids are not doing anything like military, more like a boyscout camp. The real purpose is to make sure AFCO has all the potential draftees in the database."

"OK, never mind," Mark said. "You, Madam, – do you recall anything about the dual rape three years ago?"

"Sure! How can you forget such a horror? The Police came and we all made statements... Early in the morning, Bertie, – that's Albert, – came, shaking like mad, and said the girls were raped. We called 911 – right away! Both Mel and Jass were raped! They said: a whole gang – five men. The boys were relatively unharmed. The men tied them up, but nothing else. Anyway, after the rapists left, Bertie struggled himself out of the ropes and ran for help. It was pretty much all we knew. The rapists were never caught..."

"You said you didn't see the family recently. For... a week?" Mark asked.

"Yes, that's about right. But I can be mistaken. They use this tiny solar-power lantern, Sunbeam. Maybe, they were at home, but I didn't see. Besides, as I said, Mel works a night shift."

"Do you know where she works?"

"Never asked."

"Are the younger kids at school?"

"The boys – yes. They have books and uniforms, and Mel makes sure the boys look neat and clean. I think they also work somewhere after the school and till the late evening. Despite it's illegal."

"What school are they in?"

"No idea, sir."

"And Jasmine Hobson is not at school, is she?"

"She's at the 'Fill, I am positive."

"About the 'Fill: she told you so, or you just guessed?"

"Guessed. But I know a scav if I see one! Jass has digging tools: two wooden planks for the feet and a garbage hook. Besides, she has a wall-eye and several scars on her face. She said: a battery explosion. Must be from the 'Fill, what else?"

Mark and Kim spent another two hours going from dwelling to dwelling. The neighbors did not tell them much beyond the facts the detectives already learned from the Desert Storm veteran and his daughter.

"I can come here after dark and check if Hobsons are back home," Kim offered.

"Try it, you may get lucky," Mark said. "but remember, the neighbors had not seen the kids since the day of the murder."

"Unlikely the Butcher killed the children, sir."

"That's not what I mean. I just think the kids are scared because of the sister murder and don't sleep at home."

"And how do we find them?"

"At the McCarty Road Landfill, of course."

"There are thirty thousand workers, sir. We have no photographs. Wait! The lady says: Jasmine has a damaged eye and facial scars?"

"I believe, I've seen this girl before, Kim. Three years ago, I heard all three names: 'Jasmine,' 'Amelia', and 'Khan,' from one battery girl at the Day-Pay. The girl was about eleven at the time, had facial scars and a wall-eye. Coincidence? I don't think so. First thing tomorrow, I pay a visit to the 'Fill. If unlucky, I can come again on Monday. What if the girl takes Sundays off? But unless Jasmine Hobson left Houston, we find her, no problems."

As soon as Mark returned to the Station, his telephone started playing a melody reserved for private calls.

"Mark, darling," Mary's voice crackled in the speaker, "Mike is just back from the 'Fill. Guess what? He's got a draft notice! Can you come home earlier?"

"Draft orders you mean? Just a boot camp, I hope."

"No, Mark. The paper says: three years."

Holy shit, Mark suddenly felt sick in his stomach: they kick me out from the FBI, Mike goes to the Army for three years. Do we have enough food on the table? Mark's carpenter shop was just a distant dream... Mike might send few thousand a month, but not while in the boot camp... William's compensation? The first tranche is in 2033! Mary's vegetable beds at the backyard? Few 'unnecessary' things they might sell at the flea market? It looked uncomfortably tight.

Ashamed about the calculator running in his head, Mark said: "Honey, I will come right away."

Without changing from his office clothes, he jumped on the bike and rushed home. Despite the busy late afternoon traffic, he completed the ride under fifty minutes. A quarter mile from the house, Mark unexpectedly caught up with William, Clarice, and little Davy.

"You're early today, Mark," Clarice waved her hand and pulled William's camo T-shirt, trimming her husband in the right direction.

"Mike got draft orders!" Mark said, dismounting his bike and trying to catch his breath.

"With Mike's stellar school record, they must send him straight to the Air Force!" William laughed. An Army joke. The perpetual shortage of aviation fuel and spare parts reduced the Air Force activities to flying the President in his Air Force One. The air bases and ground radars were either abandoned or manned with cheaper civilians, so the chances of getting into the Air Force for an average draftee were next to none.

"Is it just a boot camp?" Clarice asked.

"Apparently: three years! Must be a mistake..."

"Let's run home, Rissy," William said. "We can do your navigation practice some other time."

Navigation practice – again. Clarice insisted that guide dogs were hardly smarter than two-year-old kids, so little Davy could be trained to guide his blind Daddy around the Loop while she is busy with the newborn. Mark did not like the idea.

Behind the dining table Mary and Mike studied an officially-looking paper.

"The draft orders, Dad," Mike said. "The AFCO dudes were around our shit-pile today, giving these to everybody of the right age. Mine is for the Infantry."

"Butt in the mud. Fine occupation. Better than being a digger, anyhow," William said.

"I recall, two years ago you told us just the opposite. Something about the Engineers being far safer than the Infantry," Mark said.

"I had no first-hand battlefield experience back then. Now I have a lot. My first-hand experience, my second-hand experience, and my twenty-twenty vision." William rotated his arm stump, demonstrating the experience level. Another masochistic joke was in the making.

"But wait! William has served already, and he is a disabled vet. Did you tell the AFCO guys? You even don't need to tell them such stuff. They should have a database record, no?" Mark asked.

"AFCO explained why William doesn't count. He's married, so technically he is not an immediate family member anymore. Besides, there is a new set of rules this year, so even if he wasn't married, I would be serving full-term. Read here."

Mark took the paper. "It says: you may be eligible for the active duty exemption if (a) two or more of your immediate family members have been killed in action while in the US Armed Forces in the last fifteen years; (b) two or more of your immediate family members are disabled military veterans, with disability at or exceeding 35%; (c) one of your immediate family members is a disabled military veteran, with disability at or exceeding 90%, and (d) if you are a single parent or a guardian of at least three children less than fourteen years of age... What a...?"

"Right! An exemption, my ass! I especially like those disability percentages in there. Hey, Billy! How much, you said, do they give for a missing arm or a missing leg?"

"Thirty percent."

"And here they say: thirty-five! So freaking nice: your entire family is on crutches, but you still have to go for the full three years. Hey, Billy, I'm disappointed. If you had lost enough body parts to become ninety-percent disabled, we would convince Rissy to divorce you, and I would have a slim chance to exercise the bloody exemption."

"Sorry, Mickey. I blew up myself to my best ability. Seventy-nine percent – all we can do for you."

"So! What can we do now?" Clarice asked.

"Nothing. Orders are orders. Do I have a freaking choice?" Mike replied.

"I don't know. Run away and hide?"

"Once the draft orders are issued, running away is like deserting from the Army at the time of war. Punishable by a firing squad – bang! I probably can run to Mexico, but this is the only option, and it's not too bloody attractive. We are at war with the Mexos, lo entiendes? They figure out I'm fit to serve, and I will be conscripted – but for the other side. Serving in the stinking Mexos Army – not my piece of cake. Nope. My only way out – if I fail the medical."

"Don't hold your breath, bro," William said, "My medical was a brutal ten-minute affair. If you can walk, can see, and can pull a trigger, you're perfectly good for the Infantry."

Mark scrutinized the paper once more. "It says to report on duty next week."

"Yep! The medical is on Monday."

"Shite! Why so soon?" William asked, "When I got my orders, they cut me full two weeks to get affairs in order, and all..."

"No idea. You were married and a school grad. At the 'Fill, everybody got just a day notice. I reckon, they're afraid the draftees from our shit-pile are too bloody smart and find a way out if you give them enough time. The real pity – is my job! I get five grand per week, sometimes more. Will be a shame to lose such a place. Oh, I forgot to tell you, Mister Stolz is really pissed off. His Arne got the orders too! Plus myself and one boy we hired from the Day-Pay. Our plant will be losing two key hands and one roughneck at once."

"Arne Stolz got the orders? That's a different deal! We can keep this lucrative place for you, Mickey," William said.

"What do you have in mind?" Mark asked, already expecting the answer.

"Our Sam, who else? She is fourteen, all-legal. Sam can take Mike's position. Why don't you ask Mister Stolz? Surely, at his plant, he would prefer a trusted neighbor instead of an abstract Day-Pay dude..."

"No bloody way, William!" Mary interjected. "Samantha will graduate!"

"The value of high school is grossly exaggerated, Mom. I have graduated, so what? Without my Ris, I can't read a letter or count my freaking donations. I wasted three years writing essays and studying Calculus – for bloody nothing!"

"I am telling you once again, William: only over my dead body!"

"Calm down, honey," Mark scratched his forehead. "You both have a point, but what William suggests sounds right. We all wanted Samantha to graduate, yes. But William came back with no arms... Sorry, William... And now Michael got drafted! And now..." no, he was not ready to tell Mary he might soon leave the FBI. "Never mind. I will go talk to Fred Stolz. Besides, he still may very well say 'no'..."

# Chapter 12

Mark pulled out his telephone and located the right contact. They agreed to meet in fifteen minutes: Mr. Stolz and his family lived three houses down the same cul-de-sac.

The guests sat at the front deck, around an old glass-top table. The owner quickly went into the house and reappeared with a jug of local beer and four beer mugs. His elder son, seventeen-year-old Arnold, soon joined them at the deck.

"I guess, we will not be waiting for your twenty-first birthday, boys," Frederick joked without smile. "Old enough to go to the Army, probably old enough to drink beer."

Arnold took the glass and made a tiny sip. Mark always liked this boy. He was serious and reserved, and spent most of his free time reading technical books and inventing various useful contraptions. Mike and Arnold started working at the 'Fill the same year, after Frederick decided to expand his synthetic gasoline plant. Mike often described at home how Arnold solved all these little technical problems around their chemical reactors (or 'bombs' as they called them.)

"Mike told me he got the draft orders too!" Frederick sipped his beer. "What a heck am I going to do now without my Chief Technologist and my Process Engineer? We built this shop from scratch – three of us here. I surely can go to the Day-Pay and hire few new hands, but with the casual labor the things will start falling apart real soon. Our bombs are too tricky to operate and maintain. Without Mike and Arne, I can't look after every roughneck at the plant."

Arnold lifted his fingers asking permission to speak. Mark liked this habit too, – Mike never asked prior to offloading his valued opinions on any unsuspecting listener. Arnold's fingertips were black from touching chemicals or metal – the same as Fred's and Mike's. "Marty can be your Process Engineer, Dad. He has been around and understands how the stuff works. Tomorrow, I'll check what he has missed and fill the gaps." Martin was Fred's second son, studying in the same class as Mark's daughter Pamela.

"I don't think it's a workable idea, Arne," Frederick disagreed. "He's only twelve. Helping out on Sundays is one thing, but quitting the school and working full-time? Remember, you started at the age of fifteen. Besides, it's illegal. What we do – hardly qualifies as a safe occupation."

"Illegal? Who on our shit-pile ever cares about the laws, Mister Stolz?" Mike said.

Mark raised his hand: "Don't interject, Mike. Mister Stolz is completely right. Martin needs at least another two-three years of school."

He turned to Frederick and continued: "this is exactly what we wanted to talk about, Fred. My Samantha is fourteen, so she can work... legally." Mark felt like a traitor. He was about to lose his job and was in-hurry to send his daughter to work at the 'Fill. "Certainly, it's a shame she quits the school, but considering... She can study little-by-little in the evening. Arnold and Michael did."

Mike nodded, "Sammy can be your Chief Technologist, Mister Stolz. She is pretty good in Chemistry, at least as far as the school Chemistry goes. Arne and I – we leave her good notes. You will teach her the rest in no time." Unlike Arnold, Mike almost finished his beer.

"Oh, I didn't even consider this option. Samantha for a Chief Technologist? Great idea! Really! OK, I wouldn't rush the decision. What if Mike takes Samantha to the plant tomorrow? We can see if she likes the equipment, and the equipment likes her. She can work for a week or two before making a full commitment with the school."

"Decided, then," Mark nodded. It went way easier than he imagined.

"I had a chat with an AFCO officer," Frederick said. "She leaked they had started a database for the girls. Not your usual volunteers, but for conscription. All the females from fourteen to twenty, she told me: a mandatory registration."

"To be expected," Mark nodded. The rumors had been circulating for over a year that the Pentagon wanted to institute a limited female draft. He thought of the legless Kate Bowen. She had bad luck in the Navy, but at least it had been her own decision to go and serve. It turned out his own daughters would not even have a choice, would they? "Our freaking generals run out of the cannon feed. We're sending our boys all over the world and getting back – cripples. Now – our girls. What kind of strategy is it?"

"Strategy, you said?" Frederick lifted his mug, "Simple enough: landing the USA in the Year Zero. Remember the book I gave you?"

"The Year Zero? Like – in Cambodia?" Sure, Mark remembered: a book about the Cambodian revolution. Not a best-seller by any rank. An average American would never touch such a book before the Meltdown. Too gruesome, and no Hollywood happy-end. As for the few documentary-reading intellectuals, such stories would surely raise your hair and make you so happy Marxism was dead.

Comrade Pol Pot, educated in the Sorbonne, – strangely enough, – as a radio engineer, a lunatic communist. He gave his revolution a catchy name: the Year Zero. No more cities, shops, roads, no more money, no more electricity, computers, or telephones. Even shoes and eyeglasses were declared capitalists' inventions and were banned. The middle-class was to be destroyed. To keep you is no gain, to destroy you is no loss, how Pol Pot put it... The end of Civilization.

"Exactly like in Cambodia," Frederick said. "Only, as every political radical, Pol Pot was a fool. He wanted to change everything at once. The Washington approach is way smarter. They want to land America into the Year Zero slowly. Gently. Destroy the American middle class without fuss and unrest."

"Nonsense," Mark said, "Nobody wants to destroy our middle class. Yes, we're facing temporary economic problems, because of the Meltdown..."

"For the temporary problems, Mark, situation is way too advanced. Look around! Fifteen years ago, our kids wore Nikes and design clothes. Ten years ago, – no-brand jeans from the flea market. Five years ago, – everybody switched to second-hand military uniforms. Now – our kids are barefoot!"

"It depends on the neighborhood, Fred," Mark disagreed. What the neighbor was saying was probably applicable to the northern slums, but not in here. "Our kids are not barefoot..."

With the corner of his eye, he mentioned how Mike quietly moved his unshod feet under the chair. "I admit, the culture is different now, and our kids go with no shoes. Infrequently..."

OK, 'infrequently,' applied only to Mike, William, and Clarice. The post-Meltdown generation – went with no shoes on every occasion. Of course, they did it by choice, not because they were poor! A crazy school fashion, or peer pressure, or 'No show-offs' rule, whatever. But all his children had a pair of sandals, and hey, Mary and Mark kept telling the kids to put the bloody sandals on before going out!

"Tell me, Mark, what physical thing in our life has improved in the last ten years? Honestly?"

"The inflation!"

"OK, presumably, twenty-two percent don't look as bad as seventy-eight percent per year right after the Meltdown. But remember, Mark: the inflation isn't 'physical', it's a mere mathematical function. A rate of change, or derivative, calculated by some accounting genius. The physical thing, the US Dollar, is getting worse. Lighter and lighter, every month, every day. The inflation rate just says the current decline is not as fast as it used to be. It's like you go skydiving, jump off the plane, and your parachute doesn't open. After a while, you tell yourself: excellent! My speed has stabilized! But in reality, you keep falling. Does it matter, if you hit the ground at one hundred and ten miles per hour or at one hundred and eleven?"

"The TV surely got better, Mister Stolz," Mike inserted his valued opinion, as usual, without asking any permission, "I remember, there were one hundred and something channels, and nothing to watch. And now in Houston we have only three channels left, and all three – awesome! The GalvesTube is for the music clips. The inter-state and international news – on the CNN. The SRTV – I personally like the most. They have all the best movie re-runs, with zero commercials! You can watch the entire movie like from a DVD, – without being interrupted every five minutes."

"OK, I take it, Mike," Frederick smiled. "Lucky you don't remember our TV before the Meltdown!"

"On the SRTV news yesterday," Mark said: "sixty more physicians will be licensed to Harris County this year. Which is twice as many as in 2027. The cancer rates decreased by three percent. You are too bloody pessimistic, Fred: something is improving!"

"And again, you miss the point, Mark. They tell how many physicians will be added, but do you know how many are retiring this year?"

"No."

"Three hundred and sixty! Mark, you should start doing your reality check. They are telling you: sixty physicians are added. Well. You open the window and look around. We had a GP office at the corner, remember? Two doctors, three nurses."

"Right. Now it's closed."

"See? It used to be two point four active physicians per every thousand population in Texas. Now it's zero point four-oh-five. The reality check! I keep doing it myself, all the time. The cancer decreased three percent, they say? Sure. If you die from a sniper bullet in Mexico, or from avian flu in Houston, cancer is the least of your worries."

"The economy will eventually recover, Mister Stolz," Mike said, "every economy crisis ends some day."

"Not this one. Another beer?"

"OK, explain." Mark pushed his nearly-empty mug towards Frederick. Mike made the same motion, but Mark gave his son a stare, and the mug quietly retreated.

"Mark, do you remember the Cold War?"

"Vaguely. I was still in my elementary school."

"Back then, the strategy was much easier. Here is America, and here is Russia. That is, not Russia, the Soviets. Call it whatever you want, it's all the same. Both countries had plenty of natural resources and made nukes. If you make a lot, your potential enemy shits his pants and spends more money on his own weapons. Bang! In the nineties, the Soviets bit the dust, and we won. What's next? Out of the blue sky, a bunch of terrorists drives airplanes into the World Trade Center and the Pentagon, so the USA finds itself at war once again."

"Are you talking the War on Terror?"

"The War on Terror! The Nine-Eleven was a set-up! A freaking set-up from the CIA!"

"This is a bit overboard, Fred. A conspiracy theory, first-class! Do you have any facts?"

"No facts," Frederick admitted, "I'm not about the Nine-Eleven itself. Look at the big picture. Remember, what happened after the Nine-Eleven? We immediately went into Afghanistan, but just for a show. The real target – Iraq! Do you remember the Iraq War?"

"I think so." Mark was eighteen back then, just started his University, and the war on the other side of the world was not on the list of his worries... He recalled the recent old man, that veteran in the slum... "Was it the Desert Storm?"

"Storm, my ass! That, Mark, was the first war, when Iraq messed with Kuwait. I'm talking the second, the real war. We wasted there many thousands of our men, and about five to ten times – the locals."

"Ah, getting that bin Laden asshole."

"And again you missed! In Iraq, they had Saddam Hussein. If Afghanistan had little to do with Osama bin Laden, Iraq – had nothing in common! For your information, bin Laden was popped dead by our Navy SEALs, and not in Iraq, but in Pakistan! Thirty Marines, all it took. Not a war, but a special operation! Thirty men! Just thirty. Can you possibly call this a 'war'?"

"I had a different view on the War on Terror." Mark remembered vaguely all these anti-terrorism briefings regularly conducted within the FBI prior to the Meltdown. After the crisis, the radical Islamic terrorism in the USA disappeared by itself. One could not hijack a passenger plane, – the commercial airlines simply did not fly anymore. Blowing up a skyscraper would not make much news. Strips blew empty buildings every week – all by the plan.

"Do you want to know why we really got involved in Iraq?"

"Simple. To help some nice guys, like Dick Cheney, to make their fat retirement packages, that's why."

"Oh! That's too! The real reason: our civilization arrived to the Peak Oil. It's not like the oil disappeared overnight, but Saudi Arabia and Russia were unable to increase production. The North Sea, Mexico, Venezuela, and other places – started a natural decline. Iraq, Libya, and Iran – pretty much all the US could get the extra oil from."

"I have heard it before. All about oil. I think: just the opposite. We don't have enough oil because of the crisis. The economy recovers, and the oil companies drill more wells."

Fred bang his hand on the table. "The economists always say: drill more wells, get more oil! If it was so simple, Mark! How many government energy and resources initiatives can you recall? For example, after you graduated from the Uni?"

"Let see. First, hydrogen cars. Then, the Program of the Energy Independence and Security came out, even before the GFC. Then, there were ones on the bio-diesel, on the solar energy, on the horticulture. After the Meltdown, – we had a new Presidential program every year. Only they all don't work! Only the Bicycle-2020 was useful."

"Yep! You buy a new bike, and the government gives you a discount on taxes, – equal to the price of the bell and the headlight! We would shift to bicycles without any freaking programs. Did we have a choice not to? Right after the Energy Independence came out, everybody-and-his-dog rushed to drill for the shale gas – remember?"

"Yes. I also remember politicians kept saying America had now secured its gas supply for one hundred years."

"Yeah, right! For one hundred years! Yet all professional geologists counted from ten to twenty years – max! We had to drill every seven hundred feet and frac."

"Frac?"

"Fracking, or hydraulic fracturing, – is like pumping a mixture of sand and water into a well. Under high pressure. I had just got my Ph.D. and worked for 'Burton – on this very hydraulic fracturing technology thingy. The technical details do not matter, we are talking a big picture here. By 2012, we'd drilled so many wells, the price of gas in the continental US had fallen to almost zero. Two or three dollars per thousand feet. Another beer?"

Mark waved his hand above the mug refusing the offer. "You can't count like this, Fred. The dollar in 2012 was much stronger than it's now."

"If you want to split hairs, multiply by the twenty-years inflation factor. In today's dollars, it's three to five hundred bucks per thousand feet. Ignore the small details, Mark. I'm talking the big picture here, and you keep talking basic math. To make it short, the gas was cheap, and the oil industry collapsed. By 2015, they fired everybody."

"That's how the Meltdown began."

"Not so! Exactly as the geologists predicted, the shale gas lasted for twenty years. Have you heard about the gas slums?"

"Those shanty towns around the abandoned gas wells? It was on SRTV last year. Big fire, and many dead."

"Exactly. The shale gas well works fine for three or four years, and – the end! Finito! Granted, some residual gas is still bubbling from the ground for many years. In the gas slums, they use what's left. Around their shacks – grow veggies. The only problem, they have no clean water. All the water was spent on the stupid hydraulic fracs and contaminated with nasty chemicals."

"Do you say the US Energy Independence and Security had blooped?"

"Nearly so. The same as any other such 'programs,' that rely on rhetoric and not on physics. The tar sands in Canada. Entire Alberta – wasted! Even worse than in our gas slums, Mark! The ethanol! Do you remember how Bush-junior approved the bloody ethanol in 2007?"

"To mix it with the gas? Sorry: gasoline?"

"Right! So we ended up planting millions of acres of corn and converting it all into bloody ethanol. Wasted a lot of good land. As if the scientists and engineers didn't tell everybody the tar sands and the corn ethanol are not natural fuels. They're a mere amplifier!"

"An amplifier? In what sense?"

"Simple. You take a barrel of natural oil and convert it into gasoline. Or diesel, does not matter. Plow the land, plant the seeds, and so on. Then, you take six thousand feet of natural gas, and turn them into fertilizer. You need fertilizers, don't you? Collect the corn. Produce two point three barrels of ethanol. What have you done?"

"What?"

"You've amplified one barrel of oil and six thousand feet of gas, – which is the same as another barrel of oil, if you consider the energy. From two barrels of oil you made two point three barrels of ethanol. Your gain – fifteen percent! Not counting your hard labor and all the environmental damage you created by your tractor. Fifteen percent, Mark! In exchange for these fifteen percent, you are slowly wasting the land. With the tar sands – the same story. You invest one barrel of real natural oil and one barrel-equivalent of natural gas, and get out three and a half barrels of nasty, heavy, alkaline shite. You can call it 'oil' all you want, but it's not what we used to call 'oil' here in Texas. For a bonus, you also get a moon landscape instead of the forest."

"So, if I got it right, you need to put the oil in before little more stuff comes out?"

"Exactly! Like in the basic Chemistry. You can't defeat the Mass Preservation Law! After the Meltdown, some farmers tried to save money on fertilizers. Started wasting land – much faster. You know what happened."

"The Wasted Patch of Iowa?"

"Yep. And few, smaller ones, – in the other states."

"So you believe the US never recovers after the Meltdown."

"Precisely, Mark. It started much earlier: in the nineties! Flint, Michigan. The birthplace of the General Motors. That was the first place, which started its landing into the Year Zero. The automotive industry pulled out, and the city of one hundred and twenty thousand was put on an autopilot. Then: Detroit. The same thing. And all these godforsaken places in the Rust Belt... Or take the hurricane Katrina, in 2005. New Orleans was never fully re-built. Meanwhile, as the US economy crumbled, the Government had no choice, but to tell everybody the situation was improving. They sent our troops to fight for the remaining oil, all over the world. Do you want an example? Only, don't get mad at me for this one: it's a bit personal."

"OK, fire away. I have enough beer in me not to be mad at anything."

"In Venezuela, some little oil left. The US President finds an excuse and sends there your Billy..."

"William."

"Sorry: your William. To defend our freedom and democracy. Your son honestly exchanges both his arms for few hundred barrels of oil, that's all. Before the Army, did he plan to study medicine?"

"He did," Mark nodded, a bit upset. It was the subject he and Mary preferred to avoid in conversations. "Not everything in life can happen as planned..."

"That's why we have plenty of Salvation Way collectors, but fewer and fewer physicians... OK, back to our oil barrels... Alas, we have to face the reality: William has paid with his injury for mere few hundred barrels of oil. We bring this oil to the United States and make gasoline. Few percent will go to your Police, Fire Departments, and so on. The President's Air Force One needs to refuel once in a while. What about the rest of these barrels? That's right: your Mike and my Arne will fill the tank of their armored vehicle and go fight for our freedom and democracy in some other place that has little oil left. A merry-go-round of sorts: a war for the ability to make war for the ability to make war. Ad infinitum... But: do we have an alternative?"

"Do we?"

"The alternative: we can bring all our soldiers home. Stop the wars. Lock the borders. No damn good! In such case, the USA Year Zero will happen not slowly and gently, but rather quickly. Instead of killing people in faraway lands, and bringing their resources into the US, we will start killing each other. We will be at each others' throat – for the last remaining barrel of oil..."

"We got your point, Fred," Mark said. "Perhaps, you're right. But enough politics, we got to go. Shall we throw a party for the boys tomorrow?"

"You bet. And thanks again for my new Chief Technologist..."

As they returned home, Mike stack his head into the stairs and yelled: "Sammy, what a hell are you up to?"

"Shut up, Mickey," Samantha shouted back from upstairs, "we're trying to study in here." After David-senior and Clarice moved in, both Mark's daughters shared the same bedroom, while Mike and Patrick were in the other. On Saturdays before dinner, the three younger kids had the time officially allocated for their homework.

"Get down, Sammy, we have news for you," Mike shouted again.

"Later, Mickey. I have an assignment for SnE. Due on Monday!"

"An assignment? For Science and Engineering? Then, you surely must hear this! No jokes, get down at once!"

A thump of bare feet on the stairs, and Samantha appeared in the living room. "What is it?" She still half-suspected it was a kind of prank Mike loved to play once in a while.

"Your assignment for SnE has been upgraded to a practical! We've sold you to the 'Fill!"

Sold you to the 'Fill. How did Mike guess I was so desperate to send Samantha to work?

"What?" Samantha responded.

"You will be coming with me tomorrow. I show you how to calculate the chemicals and how to run our bombs. Today – I give you my notes to read. Plenty of Science and tons of Engineering, don't worry."

No, it was just paranoia. His son did not suspect anything. "I will write an excuse for the school office, – Pamela can drop it on Monday morning," Mark said.

"What? You have decided without me!" Mary screamed from the kitchen, "as I told ya'll: over my cold, dead body!"

"Nothing has been decided yet," Mark tried to discharge the situation. "Fred needs somebody to give him a hand through the difficult period. Samantha will work at the 'Fill just for a week or two. Will see how it goes."

Yes, will see how it goes. In a week or two, the Butcher kills again. The FBI kicks Mark out, and Samantha – becomes the sole breadwinner in the entire family, not counting William with the red bucket and his freaking Social Optimum.

"I still don't like the idea," Mary said, entering the room and waving a serving spoon like a weapon.

"Calm down, honey," Mark said. "We've talked it over. It's not unreasonable, under circumstances." Under circumstances. The brass in Pentagon and goddamn FBI bosses in Washington made these circumstances happen, not him!

# Chapter 13

The going-away party was set on the next day, at the Stolz. Frederick, Arnold, Samantha, and Mike left for the 'Fill at around six in the morning: their synthetic gasoline bombs wanted attention seven days a week. William and Clarice went to the Loop. In Salvation Way, collectors took days-off as they pleased, but had to meet their daily targets. Missing Sunday donations would mean walking extra miles for the rest of the week. The party preparations landed on Elvira Stolz and Mary. Mark had decided to take this Sunday off no matter what, and who cares about the FBI brass.

Supplied with his shopping list and with forty-two thousand dollars secured in the pocket, Mark walked to the local market, two miles away. Bread at a bakery, meats and sausages at a butcher, beer at a brewer, charcoal at a fuel depot, and so on, – he hated going from one shoppe to another. How easy it was before the Meltdown!

Well, he disliked supermarkets too. As most males, Mark considered family shopping a waste of time. Every visit, it took Mary at least two hours browsing through novelty items, clothes, cookware and so on, mostly looking at things they never needed. The boys, William and Michael, were deeply entrenched in the toy section. But if Mark visited supermarkets alone, it took him less than half an hour to fill the cart, before proceeding to a checkout. Ten minutes and one credit card transaction later, he would be at the parking lot, loading the purchased goods into his car... Now, Mark had neither a car, nor even a credit card.

Four years ago, Mark tried explaining a supermarket to his younger kids. Samantha and Pamela had been to a supermarket on few rare occasions, but by the time they were probably too young to remember it clearly. Patrick missed the supermarkets all together, – he was born after the last in Sheldon-Res went under.

"These shops, – the supermarkets, – they were huge!" Mark explained. "That's why they called them super."

"As big as Mister Bell's General Store?"

"Larger. Fifty times larger."

"If the shop is so big, how find the stuff you need?" Patrick asked.

"The 'stuff' was on the shelves. All labeled. They called them 'sections.' If you need clothes, you go to the Clothes section, and look in there. You pick what you like and put in the cart."

"A delivery cart?" Patrick asked.

"A shop cart!" Samantha said instead of Mark. "I remember! Those carts – they had special seats for kids! Mom put me on the cart, up high, and pushed. She said, let's check Clothes first. How did you call them, Dad: 'selections?' No clothes, just the name. Then Mom said, let's go to Bed and Linen selection. Mommy got two wind curtains."

"Wind curtains? You mean: dress curtains?" Pamela asked.

"Of course, they're for making dresses!" Samantha said. "That's what all the wind curtains are for! So, we went to Kitchen selection. All kinds of pots, and electric machines, so cool... And then, Daddy came, and they started arguing with Mommy!"

"I remember," Mark said, "I told Mommy to get rubber boots. Five pairs! It was why we went to that supermarket first place: I got a call about the boots delivery. But while you went shopping at the Kitchen section; it's 'section,' Samantha, not 'selection', – all boots were gone! I only grabbed one last pair..."

"Did you grab and run away? Like a stealer?" Pamela asked.

Mark smiled. "I paid for it! Well, bad people sometimes did exactly as you said: run away. We called them 'shoplifters.' The checkout cashiers caught them and gave to Police. Most people didn't shoplift. They took what they needed and paid."

"Checkout – same as our school? Like we have to bring the school fee each month, and who can't pay – go home?" Patrick asked.

"More or less, but they didn't line up people and call their surnames," Mark said.

"Why the checkout guys didn't grab the stuff and run away?"

"There were security guards."

"And why the security guards didn't grab the stuff and run away?"

"Why would they do it? We had plenty of 'stuff' around. You need something, – just go buy it!"

"And what if you don't have no money?"

"Don't use double negatives, Pamela. It's not proper English. The double negatives are only used in street gangs."

"OK, Dad. What if somebody had no money?"

"Much better! If you had no money, you could go to a bank and take a credit."

"What's a credit?" Pamela asked.

"And what's a bank?" Patrick added.

"A credit is if the bank gives you money now, and you pay back later."

"And why would the bank give money 'now'?" Samantha made extra-wide eyes. "If you have money 'later,' you get what you want 'later.' For example, I was in-hurry for my PE class, and somebody nicked my hat and my school tires."

"It's 'school sandals', Samantha. Don't use 'tires', our Mummy may not approve," Mark said. "More important: you got to look after your things! Why didn't you put the sandals and hat into your locker?"

"I know, Dad! But I forgot! Besides, our PE teacher doesn't like if we're late! So I asked Mommy: can I get new tires? And she, like: Sam, can you go to school barefoot for a little while? No money for your sandals 'now.' Daddy will get his pay and buy 'later.' I said: OK, we will buy tires 'later,' what-a-prob? And Mommy said: what-a-prob is no such word."

The family budget was tight. Mary's father developed a serious bladder infection, so they spent a month-worth of Mark's salary on antibiotics. If 'what-a-prob', Mark decided, we can let her go with no tires for yet another month. Besides, it will be an excellent lesson not to forget her things all over the place!

"Mommy is right. I too don't approve of your 'what-a-prob'! Why do you need to copy all those street beggars? You must say it properly: 'what's the problem?' Or: 'no big deal.' But about the school sandals, don't you worry. I'll get you a new pair, eventually."

"'Eventually' means 'now' or 'later,' Dad?" Patrick asked.

"'Eventually' means 'sometimes in the future,'" Mark explained, "I mean, Samantha, it will be 'later,' but real soon. Probably, next month. I promise."

"Real promise?" Samantha asked.

"Real promise! Only, if something more urgent than your sandals doesn't pop up, OK?"

"OK, Dad. I can go barefoot till the 'eventually,' and even till 'later', no big deal. With no tires – much better. No need to put 'em in the locker every morning."

Every morning? Did she say: 'every morning'? – The agreement with Mommy was such that the school sandals must be worn at all times, with the sole exception for the Physical Education lessons. The PE ran three times per week, in the afternoon, not 'every morning'. After I buy my daughter those new sandals, I must figure out what exactly they do with footwear at school!

"I like your example, Samantha. You got the difference between 'now' and 'later' quite right. So for the credit, the bank gives you money now, but you pay later a bit more, understand?" Mark himself started getting confused. The banks and the credit system were not on his teaching plan for today.

"I got it!" Patrick said, "Your bank is like a street gang. They can give you money now, but if you can't pay later, they make you a slave for life."

"Very close," Mark nodded. Great. A six-year-old after the Meltdown had more common sense than fully grown adults before the crisis. You should take a credit only in a life-and-death situation, because it can make you a slave for life. Before the Meltdown, getting credit was too bloody easy. That's why the Meltdown had happened first place.

"The supermarket owners must be very rich to have such a large shop," Samantha said.

"They were rich. Very-very rich, in fact. Few owned hundreds of shops, all around the world."

"How is it possible, Dad? The owner has to go from place to place for selling his stuff? You can't be in hundreds of places at once!" Patrick shook his head, probably imagining how the tired owner would pedal from supermarket to supermarket on a delivery tricycle.

"They didn't run the shops themselves. They hired special people, called managers."

"Like a scavs' foreman?"

"Exactly like a Landfill foreman."

"Were the managers rich?"

"Not as rich as the shop owners. Managers had good income, a good house, and a couple of cars... They were an upper-middle-class."

"We have good income, a good house, and two cars! Are we an upper-middle-class, Dad?" Patrick asked.

Mark smiled. "Yes, Patrick. We're an upper-middle-class."

Good question, really. Mark's salary at the FBI was far better than most of the incomes in their neighborhood, but Mary struggled to stretch the family budget between Mark's paydays. Their 'good house' had no electricity, not counting the nearly dead solar panels on the roof and equally dead Lithium Ion batteries under the kitchen. No running water or sewage, apart from their fifty-gallon shower barrel and a hole-in-the-floor backyard latrine. Their two cars were permanently parked – on bricks, and the house Lithium Ion batteries were salvaged from the Mary's super-compact.

In 2015, their current lifestyle would firmly place them few notches below the poverty line if not at the very bottom of the social pyramid. But now, in the post-Meltdown 2026 America, they proudly called themselves an 'upper-middle-class'. If such a thing still existed.

"What happened to the supermarket owners? Are they now an upper-middle-class too?" Pamela asked.

"Not sure, sweety. Some are probably much better off than we are. Few – may be worse. You see, the rich people didn't have money as 'money.' They kept everything in shares, and bonds, and hedge funds. Such stuff became much less valuable after the Meltdown. So the rich lost their wealth – big time."

"OK, 'hedge' I understand," Pamela said, "it's like a fence, only made of bushes. I guess, you can hide your money in the bush."

"Bands – is simple too!" Patrick said, "band is like a gang, only in the countryside. What are shares?"

I should not have mentioned it, Mark thought. Now he had to explain the stock market to his kids. The knowledge they would never need. "Shares are like papers. You give a business your money, and they give you back a paper..."

"Got it!" Patrick said, "shares are like re-whitened notebooks. Mom says, we should buy only direct from the 'Fill. The paper direct from a business is way cheaper than in Bell's General Store."

"No, it's more complicated... Those shares, they were not really papers. It was all in computers... You know what? I tell you all about shares and hedge funds some other time, OK?"

"I don't like supermarkets!" Samantha concluded with a resolution of a ten-year-old, "if we need bread, you give me three hundred bucks, and I go to Mister Sullivan at the corner. Or I can take my bike and ride all the way to Missis Chang's bakery. It's so fun! Missis Chang always has leftover bread cut in small cubes and dried in her oven, and gives them to kids no-pay. 'Crunchies,' she calls them..."

No-pay 'Crunchies,' yet another street-talk word, Mark smiled. His daughter was right, to a degree. The family-owned shoppes had their advantages. At least, Mark's kids did not get the pre-Meltdown dosage of food preservatives, and artificial coloring, and animal antibiotics. In Texas, food supplies were OK. Mary was careful with the money, and the family could afford enough proteins: tofu, eggs, milk or cottage cheese every day, meats or poultry twice a week, and fish or other seafood – once a month. All came absolutely fresh. Their fridge in the kitchen had been converted into a pantry, and their garage freezer served as an emergency water storage. Some neighbors ran little freezers from solar panels to make ice. If Mark wanted a little pre-Meltdown luxury, he issued Samantha or Pamela a plastic box and a fifty-dollar bill and sent them down the street to purchase ice-cubes for his drinks...

As always on Sunday mornings, the market square was crowded. Before the Meltdown, it was a typical American shopping mall. Now the former bank at the corner was converted into a butcher shop, the former Indian restaurant sold rice and spices, the former Radio Shack served as the local electronics repairmen headquarters, and so on. The larger shops had been separated into smaller, more affordable, shoppes, some measuring less than three feet at the front. Besides the permanent shoppes, there were plenty of vendors with carts, while most of the veggie sellers simply had their produce on the sidewalks.

At the entrance, a professional mafia of sorts: the older teens organized a taxi rank and lined up delivery boys, with their variety of carts. As Mark approached, the next in line was a two-wheeled contraption with a golf umbrella for a bonus. A Malaymerican boy jumped from a shade, about twelve, dressed only in a pair of shorts, with no trace of shirt or sandals. Considering his nearly-black skin and dirty callous feet, this was the standard working attire.

"Only sixty dolla'h for any delivery, sir!" The coolie was keen to make an extra buck.

"Fifty. I know the prices. Besides, we live less than two miles away."

"I have an umbrella! Fifty-five, sir! Good price-lah!"

"It's not raining, buddy. Look, if you don't want to work for fifty, I take the next cart in line." The last four words Mark said louder, addressing not so the greedy delivery boy, but the older teens in the shade.

One rank controller demonstrated Malaymerican a fist. The young professional understood the fare was not negotiable and agreed: "OK, sir. Fifty-lah!"

They started through the shoppes and stalls. Mark crossed items in his shopping list, ordered and paid, while the boy was filling the cart. Within two hours, all the necessary purchases had been completed: thirty-nine thousand dollars in total, or about three weeks worth of Mark's FBI salary. Hell with it...

Along the sidewalk, a detachment of Salvation Way collectors ran their usual business. Today, the lucrative market spot was occupied by a middle-aged man on a crutch, without his left arm and left leg, three youngsters with no legs, and finally – the local celebrity star, poet, composer, and singer: Jack-the-Rapper. Jack was an Afro-American of difficult-to-define age, and with only short stumps instead of arms and legs. An impressive dread-locked hair, mirror sunglasses, and a thirty-two-teeth smile compensated for the missing limbs.

Jack-the-Rapper appeared in Sheldon-Res about the same time William returned from Venezuela, but apparently not on the Dumpster. His songs quickly became popular. People had little choice nowadays: the GalvesTube TV, with its re-runs of the pre-Meltdown groups and few remaining Internet sites – with equally outdated music, and maintained on pure enthusiasm.

Jack-the-Rapper rested in his heavy-duty wheelchair. Roughly painted in the American flag colors, with stripes and stars, this vehicle was also a stage: with two speaker boxes instead of the leg rests and an amplifier located at the back, below the chair's handles. A portable solar panel charged a spare battery.

Clarice once said that Jack-the-Rapper possessed a secret of finding himself new girls, while discarding the prior ones without scandals. After all, the stars must be allowed freedom in girlfriend selection! The on-duty girlfriend cum sound operator was a Caucasian teenager, in jeans cut-offs, so short, they would pass for a bikini, if not for their Denim. Jack's famous leather vest, with the Purple Heart lost amongst two hundred badges and pins from various rock groups, was trusted to the girlfriend. She put it proudly over her tattered T-shirt with freshly painted JACK-the-RAPPER stencil at the front.

Two dozen spectators watched the show. Jack just finished a song, and his vest-clad girlfriend was collecting well-deserved royalties. Mark dropped a five-dollar bill into the offered red bucket, then went to the other vets in the line-up and added to their donation buckets too.

"Why did'ya give the others?" the delivery boy whispered grumpily from behind, "cripples are useless. Better pay me sixty-lah!"

"Shut up," Mark whispered back, "I'll wait until you return from the Army with no arms and legs. Then, the extra ten bucks will be all yours." The delivery boy added something else, but Mark did not pay attention.

"Thank you! Thank you for your kind donations, Ladies and Gentlemen! Change for Vets! Change for Vets! Fix my mike, baby, and make another loop with our bucket. Change for Vets!" Jack-the-Rapper twisted a little, allowing his girlfriend to adjust the hands-free microphone and exchange a quick kiss. Then, the arm stump suddenly pointed to Mark: "What's your name, man?"

"Mark..."

"Mark! Your boy goes to the Army, did I guess it right?" Jack was talking through the amplifier, and Mark – without, so the conversation resembled a mind-twisting theatrical monologue.

"Yes... Two boys, actually. My son and one of his friends. How did you guess?"

"Mark is sending two boys to the Army, Ladies and Gentlemen! Easy to guess, man. A full cart of booze and schmooze – for a going-away party! So I was told, AFCO dudes were around again, delivering draft orders. What part of our victorious Armed Forces is your boy after?"

"Infantry."

"An Infantryman! Excellent selection! Very refined. I was in the Infantry too. See, how well our modern Kevlars protect the body? Not a single scar at the torso." He rotated his arm stumps, demonstrating outstanding protective capabilities of modern bulletproof vests.

"May I ask where you lost your arms and legs?"

"Mark is asking where I lost my arms and legs, Ladies and Gentlemen! Sure like hell, you can ask. No probs! In Libya, Mark, in Libya. The goddamn jihadists attacked our base with Ricin shells, and we had to fight back. Operation Gas Shield! Or, you heard under a different name? The proper name? We called it: operation Gas Gangrene!"

Mark nodded. "One guy I know, he lost his son in Libya. In 2020."

Operation Gas Shield was the first since the Great War, in which the Americans fought with no air support: something went wrong in Europe, and the aircraft did not fly for seven or eight weeks. Left with no air reconnaissance data, without food and ammunition, and with no medical evacuation capability, the ground troops dug into lifeless desert, and were killed by thousands.

Initially, the CNN made its usual publicity stunt and sent TV crews to the battlefield. After the operation turned into a complete catastrophe, the CNN was politely hinted they should zip their mouths in exchange for the government subsidies. The actual news arrived anyway: one bit of information after another, in the war tales of several dozen mutilated soldiers who returned to Sheldon-Res from hospitals. Back then, disabled veterans were still treated like heroes; kids met the cripples with flowers and invited them to schools to give patriotic speeches.

"Yessir! Two thousand and bloody twenty!" Jack rotated his arm stumps again. "I kid you not, of my platoon, four men left! The Navy loaded dead on barges and dumped into the sea. Navy funerals, my ass! The fish also need food, right? And the cripples... Oh, man! Imagine a medevac plane, full of Quads, just like me? They brought us to the airport in two trucks. The Air Force cargo master says: no way! Forty-four patients on your list. The plane can fit only thirty stretchers. And our medic says: these will fit into your plane, Sarge, no probs. With plenty of room to spare. Didn't they tell ya? These are our chunks from the freaking Zuwará hospital. Perfectly stumped! Somebody laughed. Then, all of us, in both trucks, started laughing! All forty-four chunks. Perfectly! Stumped!"

The listeners remained silent. As much as people were used now to war horror stories, this particular one was a bit off-the-scale.

"OK, Ladies and Gentlemen! The show must go on!" Jack-the-Rapper continued after a pause, "our next song is called: Three Out of Each Five! Mark! You, sir, please tell the boys to be careful. And – to come back in one piece, not perfectly stumped, like some guys over here, got it?"

Jack's girlfriend assumed her sound operator position, fingered her heavily scratched iPod, selecting a track, and tweaked the amplifier. The speakers filled the marketplace with synthesizer beat.

He would rather dig shit at the 'Fill.

But the AFCO told him: go kill.

He was called to serve, and he filled the bill.

Go kill, GI, duty to fulfill.

He must learn soon enough, these are rules we all play.

Dig your hole, GI, dig your hole, and stay.

Don't you stick your head. Sniper fires – you pay.

Bullet five-dot-four-five.

Blends your brains – all the way.

Don't be heroes, stupid. Don't get blown away.

If you're lucky, you stay alive.

It's a darn good luck – to make three out of each five!

Three out of each five!

Three out of each five!

Pro-ba-bi-li-ty, man.

That's your chance to survive.

If you both quick and smart,

Fighting war is not hard.

Kill before they kill you.

That is modern war art.

He became so slick. War geek.

Operation last week.

Pulled wrong brunch in jungles – and click!

Now sailing on Dumpster.

No hands, no eyes, but alive.

In the port, hugging smiling young wife.

What a happy new life:

Coming home – to make three out of each five!

Three out of each five!

Three out of each five!

Pro-ba-bi-li-ty, man.

That's your chance to survive.

Shit, exactly how Clarice met William in Galveston. No hands, no eyes, but alive. Mark listened to the song and watched how the legless boy in a wheelchair, hardly older than Mike, moved the shaven head following the rap.

"Can we go-lah? I can't stand here all day!" the delivery boy whispered jerking Mark's sleeve. Mark nodded Jack in excuse for leaving before the end of the song. Jack-the-Rapper saw it and nodded back as if giving his permission. Mark and the delivery boy – moved on. The insane military march rolled behind them.

If you have no arms,

Begging isn't that hard.

They collect all they need. No greed.

No shoes for his wife, but he has Purple Heart.

And they must shut up, and perform their part.

She gives birth to four sons.

Who must dig shit at the 'Fill.

Until somebody tells them: it's time, boys, go kill.

Freedom to protect, duty to fulfill.

Only two will come back.

One on crutches, another in scars. But alive!

Lucky bastards, – to make three out of each five!

Three out of each five!

Three out of each five!

Pro-ba-bi-li-ty, man.

That's your chance to survive.

# Chapter 14

Mark woke up with a fundamental headache. At least, Arnold and Michael did not go to work this Monday. As for the Medical Board, to which the boys had to report at 10:45 and 11:00, respectively, the Army doctors would be surprised, if any draftees arrived for their medical check not intoxicated.

Mark's breakfast consisted of half a mug of acorn coffee. He rode straight to the Day-Pay. If I find Jasmine Hobson today, he thought, it would be a great deal, especially considering the hangover combined with the miserable weather! The latter began to deteriorate since the night. The sky was overcast with heavy clouds, and nasty drizzle at times stopped, then started again. Mark left his raincoat at home, and regretted half-way. Even so, he did not want to return: extra four miles, with the headache, looked more horrible than the drizzle. Thanks to his FBI badge, he was allowed to park for free at the guarded bicycle hold near the Day-Pay entrance.

It very well may happen I become a frequent visitor here, suddenly clicked in Mark's head. He imagined himself, sitting in the row of Wanna-Any-Job workers, holding a day-pay tag. What would the middle-age man's rate be? Then, his imagination presented Mark with even more disturbing picture. Again, he was at the Day-Pay, but not alone. Pamela and Patrick accompanied him, both dressed in soiled rags, with conical straw hats, and with rubber gloves in their pockets. The day-pay read: $430. A fair price for two underage scavs, who can perform equal to one-and-a-half adults. No, he was not one of these lazy parents! After sending his kids to the 'Fill, Mark would do a full day of work in his carpenter shop! If all together they make seven hundred a day... He shook his head dispersing the nasty daydream.

The landfill and its surroundings were patrolled by nine officers – the largest Police Beat under their Station. To help the FBI today, they assigned the local Sergeant Inspector, a fat smiling man named Rodrigo. For about an hour, the local cop and Mark walked through the Day-Pay rows, but Jasmine seemingly was not there.

The party yesterday went as planned. Besides Fred's and Mark's families, they had fifteen or so external guests, mainly Mike's and Arne's friends from the 'Fill. The barbecue was set at the backyard. Mr. Stolz allowed the guests to refresh in the swimming pool, never mind it was only knee-deep. Now, the main purpose of the pool was to collect rain from the roof. Because the wet season had not fully started, and the water was used for veggies, nothing could be done about the pool level. The official part had ended at half-past nine, – the majority had to work on the Monday morning, besides, a light rain started suddenly.

After the guests left, both families sat at the deck and moved from the beer to sugar cane liqueur, but it was not enough, so Frederick brought a large bottle of chemically-pure ethanol. "I appropriated this in our lab," he admitted to Mark, "when 'Burton filed bankruptcy, I went to my boss and asked, can I take the lab chemicals home? All the same, they will smash them or pour in the wrong drain. He just waved: who cares? While my less entrepreneurial colleagues were queuing at the HR, I made three trips and relocated all the stuff into my basement. The other fellows were given their severance checks one day ahead, but I was left with all the goodies."

Samantha was dispatched to the neighbors to buy ice, and Elvira began preparing vodka. Strictly by the lab code: in a chemical measuring beaker, two volumes of alcohol into three volumes of ice-cold water, stirring the tincture with a glass rod. As the chemical bottle slowly lost its precious content, the mood at the table became more cheerful. William demonstrated the audience how to drink vodka with no hands. The performer was asked for an encore. Mark described how in 2009 he participated in the arrest of an alleged terrorist, reported to the FBI by his vigilant neighbors. The SWAT was called for nothing: the terrorist turned a mere Chemistry student, who produced Mephedrone and other equally pleasing substances for his friends. The mention of Chemistry led Frederick to a story about his work in the oilfield R&D.

"Did I tell you, guys, I have four US patents?" he boasted. "The coolest one... eek! ...was on safe detonators. Well, making a safe deto is easy. Basically, you need a resistor... Or a Zener diode! But then – you need high voltage to set it off. And we wanted a deto to be set off from regular AA batteries. But at the same time – to be totally safe. What would you do for such a predicament, Arne?"

"Dad, you've told me already. I know the answer."

"Oh, right! But Mark – he surely doesn't know! What would you do, Mark?"

"No idea, Fred. All my detonator knowledge is limited to three hours of boring FBI lectures. Besides, it was twenty years ago... And the last-but-not-least, – I was asleep!"

"OK. I-got-the-picture... Eek! OK, I'll tell ya'll." When Frederick was drunk, he loved showing off the perfect Texan accent, acquired from his ancestors. The modern science had not established how the accent disappeared if he was sober. "We invented a ternary deto! Not a binary, but a three-state! Yes! While it's not activated, you can bang it with a sledgehammer. Or throw it into a campfire. Or shoot a bullet through it! And even high voltage. Several thousand volts – no problem! The detonator will burn, naturally, but won't detonate."

"And how to set it off, exactly?" Mike asked.

"Ha! It was the invention. First, you send positive voltage. The reaction is..." Frederick dipped his index finger into his water glass and tried to draw a formula on the table: "Never mind the formulas. The firing sequence is like one, two, three. One! A positive pulse: three volts, three seconds or more. Two! A negative pulse: also three volts and at least three seconds. At this point, the deto is 'ready' – activated. Three! The next positive pulse leads to a detonation in under five milliseconds. Yes, only five! This is a darn good spec for a safe deto! Moreover, if the deto is not fired, it deactivates by itself in under one hour. You may sledgehammer it again! So we filed a patent, Frederick R. Stolz et al. Our Marketing came up with a commercial name: TriSafe."

"A TriSafe deto? I didn't know it's your invention!" William said. "In the Engineers, we worked with these detos almost every day."

"My little invention is very popular! Not only in the US Army. If all the Muslim extremists, the South American guerillas, and the Asian freedom fighters paid me fifty dollars for each booby trap they set with my TriSafe, I would live a goddamn Saudi Sheikh! I can bet you anything, Billy, you lost your arms thanks to my deto!"

William laughed and moved his truncated shoulders up and down, "Excellent job, Mister Stolz. I owe you. Fifty bucks tomorrow – after my Loop, OK?"

"Sorry, William, I didn't mean to..." Frederick's face looked nothing like smiling, his Texan accent suddenly gone.

"Never mind. I trade you a very funny story about your TriSafe and the South American freedom fighters. Venezuela! In case you have not guessed."

"But we have. Where else can you meet a South American freedom fighter? At the corner, in front of your Salvation Center?" Mike said.

"Shut up, Mickey! So, the second day of my deployment. A Mil-Int Corporal... The Mil-Int for you, damn civilians, stands for Military Intelligence."

"Bullshit! Such a thing does not exist. 'Military Intelligence' is like 'dry water.' An oxymoron!"

"I said: shut up, Mickey! You are an oxymoron yourself, but with all the oxy substituted with H2S farts! So the Corporal comes to us and asks: bros, have any Primacord left? Can we borrow? Our Sarge says: no probs, which type? And the Corporal: the thicker the merrier. Our Sergeant gave him half a roll. RDX-ten, yellow jacket. Never asked why he needed the stuff. Who cares what the Spooks want to blow?"

"Wait, can you speak plain English?" Arnold interrupted. "What are all these: 'RDX,' 'Primacord,' 'yellow jacket'?"

"Primacord is a detonating cord," Frederick translated: "Like a rope, but with explosives inside. RDX is the type of secondary explosive. Good, but expensive stuff, only the Army can afford. If I remember correctly, the number ten in the yellow jacket is fifty grains per foot, the fattest variety."

"Spot on, the yellow number ten – is fifty G.P.F.!" William confirmed, "well, the Mil-Int Corporal thanks and takes off. Our Sarge suddenly says: and why the heck did he go towards the river? We're bloody idiots! The Spooks just went bloody fishing with our Primacord! They have fish for dinner, and we have nothing, but a butt-hurt for a non-combat use of our explosives. OK, he tells me: you're the most junior here, follow this damn Corporal. The butt-hurt we will have anyhow, but I prefer to have it after my fish. In case any officer asks, you're helping these bozos with their basic explosives training. Understood? Understood! So here I am, chasing this Mil-Int Corporal. We come to the river, and I see this: the Spooks captured a boat, and with it – two locals. Guerillas, no sweat. Or freedom fighters, whatever."

"Wait! How did you know they were guerillas?" Arnold asked.

"For starters, they had an AK-47."

"What if they were just hunting?"

"With an AK-47? Hunting, sure! And the second weapon was a Chinese-made surface-to-surface guided missile. Not quite handheld, but portable. Nice design, better than what we had. Easy to use. Accurate. I'm telling you, Arne, if these guys were out hunting on the river, they were hunting our gun-boats..."

Mark nodded. "I just met one vet, from a river monitor. She was shot with a Chinese missile."

"She? His boat, you mean?" Clarice asked.

"Nope, I meant: both. The boat and the female vet. The girl was a volunteer, with the Navy."

"In Venezuela, all our gun-boats have female crews," William said. "Anyway, the guerillas. One – just a kid, about thirteen, the second is my age. Naturally, both are covered in blood. The Spooks diligently extracted all the intel. The Sergeant, that's not ours, but the one from the Mil-Int – noticed me. He says: you must be new, Private? Interested? OK, watch this. Operation Titanic is on the way. One Spook told these guerrillas in Spanish they would go to a POW camp... Or something like."

"Something like?"

"My spoken Spanish is not too good: because of the war, all the Mexos had been deported, who to practice with? The Spooks set these two guys in their boat and tied them up with our Primacord. The guerillas did not resist. The Primacord – it really looks like a clothes line. The Spooks attached a radio detonator box. Your TriSafe, Mister Stolz, is inside, along with a battery and electronics, so I was told... Right! The boat was pushed off the river bank. The guerrillas, finally, realized they're not going to the POW camp, but rather to the place far more distant. Started yelling: no, por favor, no..."

"Well?"

"That's all! The boat drifted seventy yards. The Sergeant shouted, all by the rules: 'Fire in the hole!' Pulled out his tactical radio, punched in the code... Ka-boom! All gone: no boat and no guerrillas. The Primacord, it has this interesting effect. The explosion is not too strong, but all shredded. In teeny-tiny pieces... I was that close to throw up..." He wiggled his shoulders. It looked like he wanted to show how close he was to throwing up, but his arms were invisible.

"Do you call it a funny story? What's so freaking funny about blowing people up?" Arnold asked. He too was ready to throw up.

"Good question," William admitted, "in Venezuela, it was somehow very funny. Somebody says: Operation Titanic! And everybody: boo-ha-ha-ha! Maybe, by the contrast with all the rest. The rest was, in fact, far worse. After the explosion, the Mil-Ints ran downstream and collected fish for dinner. Here, private: a compensation for your Primacord! Only after seeing how the Spooks dispatched those two guys, I couldn't eat fish at all! All my deployment time – till the Dumpster... OK, forget it! Probably I should not tell this story first place... Ris, baby, can you check if I have vodka in my glass?"

Despite being drunk, Mark woke up around three in the morning, in cold sweat and breathing heavily. He had a nightmare, so realistic that finding himself back in the bedroom darkness felt like he escaped death.

In the dream, he walked through the cargo section of the Houston Hobby Airport. Mark was there few times before the Meltdown and once – soon after, meeting the FBI brass. He knew he must hurry, as the plane had already landed. Indeed, the transport was already in front of a hangar, being off-loaded. Bright midday sun and a bit of fog, – how these could be together, Mark wondered, – obscured his vision. The plane was the slum Hercules derelict, complete with the broken wing and protruding aluminum ribs. About a dozen of Air Force personnel ran back and forth with medical stretchers, placing on the concrete a long line of military duffel bags.

Mark came closer and observed these were not duffel bags, but people, dressed in faded field uniforms. Quad amputees, entirely without arms or legs. In the head, Mark knew his airport visit was because of the vets, but did not quite remember why. Of course! Mr. Todd, from Salvation Way! He asked Mark to help with forty-four new collectors in Change for Vets program. Favor for favor, for the funerals of Nick Hobson and Amelia Khan. Right!

Even closer, and Mark realized that the first vet in the line was his son Mike. The fog concentrated into figures: the Senior Officer himself, accompanied by the sharply dressed Salvation Way lady from the window poster who had a pencil and a notepad. Mr. Todd unpinned Mike's Purple Heart and dropped the medal into the red donation bucket.

"You don't need it, Mickey," he explained, "the medal is for those who cannot show the battle scars!" Then, he dictated the donation bucket's serial number to the impeccable lady and set the bucket on the tarmac, between Mike's leg stumps. Mike smiled.

"A bit hot today, isn't it?" Mr. Todd asked Mark, "Mister Pendergrass, would you be so kind to help this vet out of his jacket?"

"No probs, Mister Todd. Always happy to help," Mark replied, crouched down, and proceeded unbuttoning Mike's uniform. He discovered that Mike's arm stumps had jagged scars, as if the surgeon operated in a great hurry.

Mr. Todd was already setting a donation bucket next to the second amputee in the line. I must undress this vet too, Mark decided. Ninety five degrees! Too hot for full uniforms... He removed the vet's jacket, and finally recognized the face: Arnold Stolz. Arne gave Mark a polite nod. Oh, right, he can't talk now. Arnold always lifts his fingers before talking. Will he learn how to insert his opinions without permission, the same as Mike does?

Meanwhile, Mr. Todd and the Salvation Way lady, as one well-oiled machine, continued distributing their red buckets. Tup! A medal drops into a plastic bucket. Serial number, such and such. Did you get it right, Miss Johnson? Thank you. Tup! The bucket is placed on the tarmac. Mark proceeded from Arnold to the third vet in the line and crouched down. It was a girl. Mark hesitated: what if she had no T-shirt under her jacket? The camo, threadbare and faded from few hundred laundry cycles, looked like the uniforms in his daughters' school.

"Hi, Dad!" the vet in front of him said.

Dad? Dad? He looked at the vet's face: sure enough, it was his Samantha. Mark felt angry. Why the hell did she volunteer for the Army?

"I did not volunteer, Dad," she said. Her lips did not move, and the voice magically appeared in Mark's head. "I was drafted, remember?"

Suddenly, Mark remembered. The girls were drafted now! They had no choice!

"Take her jacket off," a voice from above said.

Mark looked up. A military surgeon, with red eyes from the continuous sleep deprivation, his surgical scrubs had Barney and Friends dinosaurs all over it. Like six years after the Meltdown, when little Sammy had a twisted ankle, and the doctor explained Mark that the locally-made anesthetics were not as safe as the real stuff, and better be avoided. Only, back then the surgeon had an X-ray in his hand, and now – a neat, shiny chainsaw.

"It's all-right," the surgeon said in Mark's head.

Mark unbuttoned Samantha's jacket and felt relieved to see she had her favorite swimsuit under it. Her arm stumps were also uneven and jagged, the same as Mike's and William's. A real pity. Girls, unlike boys, need no scars.

"We call it: radical procedure," the surgeon's voice said. "These new chainsaws are so cool! I can make a Quad in six minutes! Stitches out in one week, and Sammy is good to go. None of my amputees had complained!"

No, the surgeon with a shiny chainsaw was no maniac, Mark decided. Twenty surgeries a day; what else could he do? Then, Mark felt he had missed something important! He had it in his head before entering the Airport, but now it was gone. Pamela and Patrick! He ran along the line of the quad amputees, looking into each face. All faces appeared familiar: those he interviewed for the Butcher case, but he could not associate the names. The line was endless. Few vets recognized Mark, nodded, or said something polite without opening their lips.

Suddenly, Mark stopped on his tracks. The next two amputees in the line were Patrick and Pamela, sitting on the scorching tarmac in their second-hand Army (or school?) uniforms, with Salvation Way buckets between their useless leg stumps.

"Hi, Dad," Pamela said – directly in Mark's head, "look, how funny: me and Ricky haven't no arms – no legs..."

"How many times I told you to drop these double negatives, Pamela? Only beggars and street gangs talk like this! Proper English, you promised me, remember?"

"OK, OK, Dad. Patrick and I have neither arms nor legs. Better?"

So stupid, Mark thought. Like back then, I was teaching the kids supermarkets, banks, credit, stocks, bonds, and hedge funds, as if they ever need it... My daughter is reduced to a living torso, only good for sitting with a stupid donation bucket, yelling 'Change for Vets!', and saying thanks to any passerby who drops a dollar or two. In her new state, it was perfectly OK to use double, and quad, and whatever-multiple negatives. Only beggars and street gangs talked like this? So what? This was their new language, targeted to the specific new audience. Now, she didn't need no goddamn proper English!

"And who says: 'Three out of each five,' Mister Pendergrass?" Mr. Todd's voice boomed from behind. Mark turned. Surprisingly, Mr. Todd was talking as normal, with his lips moving. "Who says: 'Three out of each five?' You can get much luckier than that! Right, Miss Johnson?"

The poster-perfect Salvation Way lady nodded. "Absolutely right, Mister Todd. Absolutely right! Take Mister Pendergrass, for instance. He had five kids in the Army, and all five will be our collectors now. Sadly, Billy is not a Quad. What a waste."

"Positively, Miss Johnson, our Billy is unlucky to have his legs. Armless vets are not effective anymore. Not any better than those legless dudes. Just think all this spot-holding going on, despite my direct orders! But: never mind, never mind. Our new collectors will turn an outstanding revenue next month, what do you reckon?"

"You are absolutely right, Mister Todd. These new guys will be an excellent addition to our charity campaign. Forty-four new Chunks! Perfectly! Stumped!"

Like a gust of wind, all the quad amputees picked maniacal laughter. "Boo-ha-ha-ha! Perfectly! Stumped!" Now their mouths were opening and closing with gaping black holes. Pamela, and Patrick, and few others could not sit straight and rolled on tarmac choking in convulsions. "Oh, so funny, Miss Johnson! So wonderful! Chunks! Chunks! We are – chunks! Perfectly! Stumped! Boo-ha-ha-ha!"

Mark woke up, and it took him few minutes to calm down. Mary moaned in her drunken slumber. Mark wondered if she had nightmares too. Good it was just a dream. Nothing was lost. Mike and Arnold may fail their medical tomorrow. Or if they pass, they're not deployed. Or deployed, but not to a crappy place, like Venezuela, or Colombia, or Iran, or Norway. Or just get wounded, not killed. Perfectly OK if Mike comes back on crutches. No big deal, can get a prosthetic leg... Only please, please, please, Mark suddenly started praying: please come back alive...

# Chapter 15

Around eight-thirty, Rodrigo and Mark crossed Beaumont Highway, made their way through the maze of stinky recycling workshops and ended up at McCarty Road Landfill. If Jasmine works in one of these endless workshops, we have to go around till the evening. But, her neighbor said, she had seen her with a garbage hook, so to try the 'Fill first was rather logical.

Even being accompanied by the local Sergeant, Mark had to produce his FBI badge at the landfill's checkpoint. Theoretically, no one was allowed to come here without an official permit. If you wanted to start a scav business – must buy a license. Despite the strict regulations, everyone knew much more convenient way to deal with the guards. A five-dollar bill served as a valid pass for a child, and ten dollars would open the gates for an adult. Still, if you come all by yourself, you would not be digging for long. The entire landfill territory had been divided between gangs of scavengers, and all non-unionized newcomers were beaten half-dead and told to get lost.

The last time Mark visited the 'Fill six years ago. Back then, the FBI was summoned to a crime scene: the scavs found a fresh male corpse with obvious signs of strangulation and decided they better called the Police. The body belonged to a known gang member, so the FBI got jurisdiction over the case. Mark was sure only one dead body out of each five found at the 'Fill was honored with a report to authorities. Most of such finds scavengers buried in the garbage without passing a single word. If one called the Police, the investigators would fence the scene for good half a day, then, where to dig? Six years ago, the 'Fill was a mountain. Before the Meltdown, few even believed the McCarty Road Landfill was the highest point of totally flat Houston. Now, the dump site, penetrated with holes and trenches, for most part resembled Swiss cheese.

For one hundred years, Houston had deposited here layers after layers of garbage. Which fourteen years ago became a mineral resource of sorts! And as every mineral, the old garbage was finite. The same as that damn shale gas, Frederick kept talking about. What would happen to all our neighborhoods after the landfill can't supply the recycled stuff anymore? The Year Zero from that book of Pol Pot's Kampuchea was fast approaching.

"I must give you a safety brief, sir," Rodrigo said. "Do you want a full version, or an unofficial 'one-sentencer'?"

"The short version is fine, Sarge." The headache drove Mark nuts, even without safety presentations.

"All-right, then. The short version: please, kindly look both under your feet and around."

"But I am. The 'Fill looks sufficiently scary."

"People get complacent, and shit happens. Yesterday, we had one fatality. A girl got sucked into a rot-pit. Her own fault, really. Those rot-pits kill you in seconds."

"What's a rot-pit?"

"So we call them here. There, on the north side, they used to dump the expired food from supermarkets. Dumpster – fulls, five thousand pounds, imagine? Who would throw five thousand pounds of perfectly edible stuff? The disposed food formed huge pimples underground. On top, layers of solid waste, below – a pocket with liquid pus. Water doesn't drain from rot-pits, because all the foods were in plastic back then. If a rot-pit sucks you in, you go down, like in a swamp. Then, it burps with methane and hydrogen sulfide. Scavs say: if you can't drag a person out in less than fifteen seconds, don't bother. They even don't risk pulling the dead body out. Believe it or not, rot-pits digest people. Three days, maximum one week, – and only bones left!"

Mark reckoned the landfill area. Probably, no less than a square mile. With all these trenches, rot-pits and God knows what else, the search for Jasmine may very well last till the evening, even without visiting the recycling workshops.

Mark did not have a photo of Jasmine Hobson. He was not worried about this initially, thinking the unmistakable traces of her accident three years ago would make the search easy. Mark tried to ask scavengers if they saw a teenage girl with scars from a chemical burn, but everybody just shook their heads. The 'Fill rules were no different from the Day-Pay: scavs were not inclined to discuss their 'little mishaps'. Rodrigo proposed to skip the questions, and rather rely on their own legs and eyes. He recalled seeing a wall-eyed girl at the 'Fill. How hard would it be to spot her again?

By midday, they surveyed half of the landfill, and Mark was already exhausted. On top of the headache from yesterday drinking, now there was a terrible headache from the landfill aroma. Each component by itself was not too bad: a smoke from fires, a smell of fallen leaves, scents of machine oil, rotten wood, and so on. But all together, they formed a disgusting 'bouquet.' It felt like all his clothes were impregnated with this odor too. Mark's shirt became damp from the drizzle and was unpleasantly scratching his skin. His shoes and pants up to the knees were covered with greasy mud. He regretted that he had dressed this morning as for the office. Now Mary would complain he did not take care of his clothes, and it would be necessary to do an extra wash. To add to all the torture, Mark's mouth was dryer than the Wasted Patch of Iowa, but he could not bring himself to drink. One sip, and the wretched smell, as well as the very view of the garbage heaps turned him inside out.

How could all these workers stand it? Got used to? Must be a 'generation gap,' Mark decided. The older scavengers were all dressed in long pants, long-sleeved jackets, and many had rubber boots. Almost all had gloves on their hands; few were even wearing face masks. Presumably, before the Meltdown the older workers had very different jobs. Lawyers, financial advisers, managers... Like Deputy Kim's mother, a financial auditor who became a rag-picker. If some of them were not the white-collar types, filling supermarket shelves or tightening nuts in a car repair shop was much cleaner and more rewarding occupation.

But the younger scavs, in the under-twenty age bracket, had no aversion to the 'Fill. In front of him, a girl cracked a rude joke about the young man who was sorting garbage next to her. She giggled and ran to escape, splashing dirty puddles with her bare feet. The young man chased her, but tripped over his flip-flop and almost fell, causing another burst of laughter among the scavengers. Comically, he hopped on one leg, trying to get rid of the second flip-flop, but finally abandoned the chase. The girl stopped too and descended from a garbage pile to resume her work.

Despite miserable weather, the majority of younger scavs, including the girls, worked half-naked. A combination of heavy work pants with a bikini top was not uncommon! No work boots in sight either; their standard footwear was a pair of tire 'flops, and many worked barefoot. All dag through garbage with bare hands. Every third scav did have rubber gloves, but wore them at the belts. The youngsters only put gloves on if the landfill revealed something really dangerous – a car battery or a bundle of metal shavings. This generation was born after or just few years before the Meltdown. They saw nothing better, and for them – digging at the 'Fill was a norm. Not a dream job, but quite all-right.

And the third generation was present too! On a pile of construction debris, Mark spotted two women breastfeeding their babies. One was about sixteen. The other looked a bit older, and at her feet, a toddler, completely naked, sat in a puddle, making mud pies. The little boy dug a squashed aluminum can and solemnly handed it over to his mommy. She smiled and sent the treasure into her basket. No wonder they called these landfill kids – maggots! Yes, for these toddlers, this landfill was a home-sweet-home. Where else can you play with mud and make your mommy happy with a wonderful Coca-Cola find?

"How do they stand walking over all this crap with no boots? Gross, isn't it?" Mark told Rodrigo, not so asking a question but rather stating a fact. The fat Sergeant belonged to the generation in-between the former white-collars and the under-twenties. He dressed quite comfortably: industrial rubber boots on his feet, and a plastic poncho on his shoulders. The landfill aromas did not bother him at all. The lunch time approached, so from a food vendor he bought two burritos and began to tuck them on the go.

"With no boots? Why gross?" he raised his eyebrows, holding the half-consumed burrito in front of his mouth. The issue, seemingly, had never occurred to him.

"OK, 'gross,' probably, is a wrong word. I mean, it must be dangerous. What about all sorts of infections? In the garbage, there are old syringes, medical waste, and other such shit." Mark had somehow accepted his children went barefoot in the city, but surely not at the garbage dump?

"The opposite. Some scavs claim going barefoot on the 'Fill is marginally safer. Apparently, without shoes their feet can feel springy ground, so to detect rot-pits and other holes. I believe it's a fishing tale. All the same, walking barefoot here is hardly more dangerous than in any other place in Houston. Once in a while, I have no choice. Imagine, in the morning you come in sandals, and by lunch time, there is a thunderstorm. Boom, and mud is knee-deep! What do you do? Even so, I try not appear at my Beat with no shoes. Maintaining the Police image."

This very morning, Mark had almost identical conversation with Samantha. After the mandatory water run to the Reservoir (this activity all the neighborhood kids traditionally performed unshod, and Mark did not mind – at least, not anymore), Samantha jumped on the trike to go to the 'Fill.

"And where are you going like this?" Mary yelled.

"Like what, Mom?" Samantha asked, checking her jeans and T-shirt. She even tried to look behind her back.

"Like: without your rubber boots!"

Samantha smiled: nothing serious! Not as bad as the humiliating 'Caution: Inexperienced Trike Driver' sign pinned on her back by mischievous Pamela and Patrick the other day. A matter of no concern: going to a landfill in bare feet!

An authority struggle followed. Mark was on Mary's side, repeating the same arguments he just posed in front of Rodrigo. Frederick's plant was half-a-mile from the 'Fill, but all kinds of gross and dangerous stuff could be anywhere. After all, it was a chemical plant! Didn't they have safety rules at the chemical plants? Finally, a compromise was made. Yes, Samantha would do the same as Mike had done before her: hang the boots under the trike's seat to put them on upon arrival.

Mark pointed that besides the boots under the seat, Mike always had his flip-flops. At this, Samantha dismissively waved her hand. Mike is such a sissy, she said, only sissies need 'flops for riding a bike. Finally, the rubber boots had relocated from the garage corner to the hook under the seat, and Samantha departed, pushing trike pedals with her bare, tough, wholly anti-sissy toes.

"Have you ever cut your foot here?" Mark asked Rodrigo.

"Me? Never. If you get used to with no shoes, your feet react automatically. No probs. The real danger is the one you can't see."

"Like a bio-hazard waste?"

"Not really. The bio-hazards are only in fresh garbage, and we had no new dumps for years. Medical sharps get rusted and can't puncture skin anymore. I meant: the chemicals. They're not biodegradable."

"Like battery acid?"

"That's too. But the worst is dioxin. It used to be a lot of chlorine around, in the household chemicals, and such. When everything rots, the chlorine reacts with organic matter. For men, it's dangerous, but not too bad, but for women – oh shit! Especially for pregnant! Miscarriages are common. And sometimes: a live baby, but an idiot, or with flippers instead of arms or legs. I told my wife: before you give birth to as many as you want, don't even think working here!"

"And how many does your wife want, if I may ask?"

"No idea. By now, we have six, and the seventh is due in October..."

"The seventh! Does she want more?"

"She will tell me in January. Children – our best investment!"

Whilst Rodrigo was consuming his burritos, Mark observed the work of Steam Scav, the latest 'Fill invention. A locomobile engine turned a huge flywheel. Scavengers put a steel anchor to the top of a garbage heap, the rope was wrapped around a pulley. The operator shouted 'Stand back!' – and applied tension. The steam engine did the rest, ripping a shallow trench in the garbage. The rag-pickers immediately crowded the trench, while the anchor went to the next heap. Three stoker boys, dressed in nothing but shorts, and with their backs shiny from the rain, sweat, and black soot, fed the furnace with chunks of rotten wood. The locomobile stack emitted clouds of heavy black smoke. Twenty years ago, Mark saw something similar in a sci-fi movie. Back then, who could tell that a steam monster and her teenage stokers might jump from the silver screen and become an everyday routine?

The officers moved on, overtaking several middle-aged women who brought lunch to the scavengers. Confidently stomping garbage with their bare feet, the women engaged with their favorite: sharing local gossips. "Is it so, Rosalind? Unbelievable!" Mark overheard, "And they did it right under your window? Here are the youngsters for you, darling. How uncivilized..." It sounded like if they were walking through a fancy shopping mall instead of a garbage heap.

My hypothesis of a generation gap did not hold, Mark said to himself. Everybody could adjust, only the youngsters, on average, – adjusted quicker than the middle-aged.

Adjust!

If somebody told me back in 2008 that by 2020 I ride a push-bike to work, I would have laughed! Back then, a bicycle in Houston was just a 'sport.' Exactly in the sense, in which this word was used in Victorian England. 'Sport' meant 'having fun.' With nothing else to do, overfed ladies and gentlemen engaged in fresh air exercises.

In 2008, Mark and Mary had two high-tech, expensive, mountain bikes, on which they rode twice a month. Mark put the bicycles on a special rack at the back of his Ford Territory, and drove twenty miles to a public park. For an hour or two, Mark and Mary cheerfully pedaled around. Then, a little tired, they sat in a picturesque picnic shed and ate sandwiches. The bikes returned to the rack, and the proud bicyclists went home, speeding at sixty miles per hour, fifteen miles per gallon, along a six-line freeway.

For sure, back in 2008, enthusiasts rode bikes to work every day, and in any weather. But they were few, causing only smiles and mild jokes from their automotive co-workers. And now? Military charters became expensive, motor-buses – unreliable. Omnibuses, which more and more replaced motorized transportation – notoriously slow. Bicycles became the only practical way of getting from point A to point B in reasonable time and on your own schedule.

For a while, their two mountain bikes and William's small BMX, all scratched, repainted, and scratched again, with patched tires and permanently locked gears, provided all the family needs. In 2024, the Sheriff's Office issued their poor FBI relatives real police bikes: with heavy-duty frames and simple but reliable three-gear shifters. When Mark arrived home on his new police bike, he felt better than in his brand-new Territory seventeen years earlier. Finally, in 2027 Mike 'borrowed' two wheels from their hybrid Toyota and built himself a cargo trike. Mary made a scene, but the three-wheeler proved itself handy for their daily water runs. They had adjusted to live without cars. No probs.

Or take school buses. Back in 2020, it was said without buses Houston schools could not function! The city authorities discussed how to convert the vehicles to natural gas, still available, despite the crisis. The buses eventually stopped, but the schools kept teaching. Students had adapted: went on-foot or rode bicycles to school. When ten-year-old Mike made a face and declared he was not going two miles to school without a bus, Mark just said, "Two miles? So what? Wake up one hour earlier, lazybutt!" And the problem had been solved. Well, for those few who lived too far from any school, the solution came in form of home schooling, or no schooling at all. As William said the other day: 'the value of high school is grossly exaggerated.' For digging landfills or tending veggies, even primary education was not too necessary.

Or synthetic drugs! Before the Meltdown, the Police chased underground 'chemists,' makers of synthetic narcotics and recreational pills. But by now, the underground became completely legal and ran reputable businesses, producing substitute medicines. All those remedies, now impossible to obtain due to mass bankruptcy of pharmaceutical companies! Mark recalled his conversation with Alex a year ago.

"I met this guy when I was a trainee," Alex said back then. "Four years later, I personally sent him behind bars, for making Ice. And look at him now! He rents half-a-house on our street. A chemist shoppe! Want to know how he called it? Red Pill – Blue Pill! I kid you not! Like in the old movie, The Matrix. So I asked him: before the Meltdown, we were told to put gas masks on before breaking into your bloody labs. Whatever you're making now – is it the same crap, or less dangerous? And he smiled: those gas masks covered not so your ugly faces, but your Sheriff's ass! If something went wrong, or you did something stupid, he could always say: but I gave my officers personal protective equipment, didn't I? Apparently, if the chemist understands his business, there is no danger. And his air pollution, he says, is no more than from any blacksmith or a soap maker... Our chemist is not an unreasonable guy. He told me: no bad feelings. Before the Meltdown, you, Sarge, did your job, and I – did mine. Even offered me a discount on analgesics or sedatives!"

"Watch out!" Rodrigo shouted.

Preoccupied with his thoughts and distracted by his headache, Mark made the biggest mistake at the 'Fill. He did not pay full, one hundred percent, attention to the stuff under his feet and around! The 'Fill made her swift revenge, but not deadly this time: Mark suddenly tripped on unstable garbage, crashed on his stomach, and slid down into a deep trench.

"Shit! What a bad luck!" Rodrigo lamented, rushing after the fallen FBI agent. Perhaps, the Sergeant cursed himself that he delivered a 'one-sentencer' instead of the mandatory safety brief.

It turned out exactly the opposite, – they had a very good luck after all. In front of Mark's face, a pair of skinny and tanned bare feet had popped up, and a girlish voice asked from above: "Did you hurt yourself?"

Slipping in the mud, Mark struggled to his feet. "I am OK," he told the girl and looked up.

If he had not fallen into this trench, he would simply have gone further and missed her. She worked down below, with her face and most of her body shielded from above under a huge straw hat. The girl's face was covered with the familiar constellation of little scars, and her right eye was all white from the chemical burn. Over the past three years, Jasmine Hobson grew up and from an awkward pre-teen turned into slender and very pretty teenage girl.

She was dressed like a typical scav, and not without a hint of following the latest fashion: a bit short and tight jeans, a camo T-shirt, and over it – a Denim shirt with cut-off sleeves. Both the shirt and the jeans boasted strategically placed holes. The girl's scars and wall-eye did not spoil the looks, even a little. Three biggest scars at her cheek had been converted into a delicate starfish tattoo.

"Jasmine Hobson, if I am not mistaken?"

"How do you know me?"

Only then, Mark realized it was impossible for Jasmine to recognize him. Now his office clothes were ruined completely. All his front side, from head to toes, his face, and his hands – were smeared with mud. "Where can I wash, please?" he asked, trying to wipe his face with his shoulder. It proved fruitless, as Mark's shirt was equally dirty.

"Wait a sec," Jasmine replied and ran down the trench.

What a damn fool I am, Mark said to himself. Located the girl – and immediately let her go! Now we may need to chase her around the landfill. I hope Rodrigo is good at running. As for me, running in all this slippery mud is out of my league!

# Chapter 16

They did not need to run. Less than a minute later, Jasmine was back – with a small plastic jerrycan in her hands. Following the girl, Rodrigo puffed along the trench. As an experienced landfill policeman, he did not jump after Mark, but found a safe way around. Behind the Sergeant's broad figure, curious faces of scav girls popped up.

"Water, sir. Only, it's a bit rotten. We haven't no other water in here," Jasmine unscrewed the cap and poured a thin stream on Mark's hands. The liquid was yellow, warm and had the inescapable landfill odor. Mark cleaned his face and partially – hands.

"Oh, I remember you," Jasmine exclaimed, "you're an undercover cop, right? You told me to go see the Police doctor, 'cause I had all these little spots – from the battery."

"I remember it perfectly. You called yourself Amelia Khan. Actually, I'm looking for you. It's about your sister Mel, and your stepbrother Nick."

Jasmine backed away, apparently trying to figure out how to whack Mark with the jerrycan and make her escape. Alas, with the trench aperture plugged by the Sergeant's formidable body, she had nowhere to run.

"What about my sister? I don't know nothing! Nothing!"

"Wait! Take it easy. Is there a good place to talk?"

"OK, let's go." She told a scav girl behind Sarge's back: "Mini, can you look after my basket? I'll be quick. Only show the gentlemen to the lake and fetch water. Our 'can is empty."

They followed Jasmine. The girl navigated a maze of trenches and holes, gracefully jumping over mud puddles. Mark was surprised her soles were pink, not black, and only slightly stained with mud. Her clothes appeared relatively clean too. The landfill did not stick to Jasmine! After seven hundred yards, they arrived to a pond, filled with the same yellow stinky water, as in the girls' jerrycan.

Jasmine sat on the edge of the embankment, dangling her bare feet in the air. "At the dam, nobody can't hear us. But if somebody comes too close, I will go, OK? 'Fill people don't like if others talk to Police..."

After a little hesitation, Mark rolled up his sleeves, kicked off his shoes, heavily plastered with mud, and sat next to the girl.

He was not sure how to start the conversation. Technically, he was not supposed to talk to a minor without her guardian present. But Jasmine had no guardian at all, and no means of finding one. Mark considered if a female officer should be necessary, but dropped the idea too. All the officers in the 'Fill beat were male, and calling Liz from the South Mesa Slum would take too long. All-right. We could call it unofficial. Not much to present in court, anyway.

"Is it OK if I disappear for few minutes?" Rodrigo asked Mark, "while you do your talking, I'll buy a snack. From all your falls, my adrenaline is too bloody high! And when I'm wound up, I always develop an appetite. Do you want anything?"

Mark winced. "Thanks, I am fine."

"And for me – could you, please, buy one rice ball? If it's no probs," Jasmine said.

When Rodrigo left, Mark took a deep breath. "Well, Jasmine, I did not introduce myself. My name is Mark Pendergrass and I'm not from the Police, but from the FBI."

"Is there a difference?"

"I'm after a serial killer. Jasmine. Have you heard about Sheldon Butcher?"

The girl shook her head. "This was not the Butcher! Not him. I'm sure, Joe killed them! Why did Mel listen to Nick first place?" She sobbed.

"Look, Jasmine. Do you mean: Joe Vo? I don't think it was him. That's what I'm trying to figure out. Could you tell me about your family?"

"What's to tell? We're from New York. Myself – I don't remember New York. We moved here when I was three. My Dad often sat me on his laps and told me wonderful stories! The Central Park and Museum of Natural History! When Houston Museum was closing down, Dad said: let's go, check it out. It was so exciting! But Dad said, the Museum of Natural History – so much better..."

"I was told your father died in an accident."

"Yeah... He fell from scaffolds and broke his back. The doctor looked and said: he won't live. And Mom tried to save him, see? That's how it all began. We needed money! For the medicines, and everything. Mom sold her gold – not enough. So, she went somewhere and borrowed. Then, she went again. And again... But Dad died anyway. He lived... for almost three months. Didn't move, only breathing and moaning..." She started crying and suddenly buried her face into Mark's shoulder, smearing mud over her cheeks.

Unsure what to do, Mark gently touched her forearm and waited.

"And then, Joe Vo came to see Mom. In the night. I pretended asleep, but listened to everything. Joe said: I gave you the loans, Madam; how do you intend to pay back? Mom said: I will pay, but not at once, can I pay little-by-little? And Joe said: it's not what we agreed upon, darling. Little-by-little will not do. The good news, Madam, I'm willing to accept your two daughters as an in-law payment."

"In lieu payment? That's what he said?"

"Yeah. He told Mom: Amelia is fourteen – I give her a job right away. Your second – what's her name, Jasmine? She is eleven, but I can wait for a year. I am no monster, jus' business. In 2033, I erase all your loans, Madam, no sweat."

"Did you understand, back then, what Joe suggested?" In the FBI, they had tons of similar stories, – a part of their mandatory training on organized crime. The Bureau had a special abbreviation for this: SLIP – Shark Loan Into Prostitution.

"Back then – no. I understood later. Joe said: it's not about the loan, Madam. I offer you a business opportunity! My employees train your daughters into profes-nals! In 2033, your girls can go priva-tear, install chips, and turn a good profit, all strictly legal. Do we have a deal? Mom cried and said, I can't give you my daughters. Can I go work for you myself? And he said, yourself, Madam? Must be a bloody joke! Who will pay for you – more than three hundred? I understand your santa-mens, and I give you two months. If in two months you bring me the money, – no hard feelings, and this chat never happened... And he left."

"And then?"

"Mom started coughing blood. She had bad cough for some time before, but didn't see doctors. She was saving every dollar. Our neighbor asked one doctor to come and check Mom no-pay. The doctor said: lung cancer from as-best-oz. Do you know as-best-oz? The doctor said: not much time left. While Mom was dying, Joe didn't show up. We forgot about him. Mel started going to Day-Pay. I and my brothers went collecting food scraps from the neighbors. After Mom's funerals, Joe came again. He brought good food and Moonshine. He talked only to Mel, but I heard. You, Mel, he said, now the eldest in the family, you're responsible for your mother's loans. I feel sorry for you, but business is business. Either find the money, or you and Jasmine go work for me. Mel said: no way! And Joe said, like, easy going: OK, baby, a 'no' is a 'no.' You will regret your decision soon enough. Mel said, good riddance..."

Jasmine bit her lip and wiped her tears.

"One week later, we came home from the 'Fill. Had a lucky day. Mel got hired for a week, and Bertie found good scraps. Lucky... Right! They were waiting for us. In our house! Five men. Dragged us inside and locked the door. Put electric tape over our mouths. Me... with me, they did it only twice. I was bleeding. The third man looked at me and said: better leave the maggot alone, or she kicks the bucket. With Mel... They made her a Merry-Go-Round, like in Beaumont Arcade. Over and over again. Then, their boss told Mel: did you enjoy it, bitch? Tomorrow – do whatever. Call Police, I don't give a damn. But the day after tomorrow – all four of you will come to see Joe, at ten AM, sharp. Understood? If you don't come, we will be here again, but this time, I invite very different guys. They haven't taste for no girls, but make love with little boys. Think about your brothers' cute bottoms, and decide yourself..."

"So you went to Joe Vo?"

"What else? Our neighbors called Police in the morning. They came, inta-rock-gated everybody. Made pictures. Took swabs for DNA... from down there... But then, they said, the DNA is canceled. Too expensive... Mel took us to see Joe. Joe looked at me and said – no freaking good: skin and bones! His 'boys' took Bertie, Millie, and me straight to the 'Fill and sold to rag barons for three thousand dollars... But barons are OK, they don't hold slaves for life. They don't need no adults. After you're fourteen, – that's all, you may go... About me – Joe had plans. He wanted me to grow up, before making me a hooker."

"Three of you. And Amelia?"

"He told her to stay. Three months later, – she got a belly. Joe laughed and said: no probs, shit happens... Sorry, I mean: he said it like this. Joe's 'boys' brought Mel to see a doc, and the doc pulled her baby out. Mel said, piece-by-piece! Also, the doc cut something inside her, so she can't have no kids. After that, Joe said: Mel, darling, the 2033 is no more! I in-vested in you so much, now you and Jassy are my slaves forever. The good news, Jassy will get stiro-lay-zation – on the house! 'On the house' is a special word, like he can pay his money. Anyway, after the operation, they allowed Mel to go home in the morning. They called her 'already screwed.' Damaged inside, nobody wants her for a wife, and no place to go. Later, Joe told Mel: Jassy is ready to start her career. Go to the 'Fill, tell the barons: I want my slave back. Rag barons can't say nothing against Joe. But I got lucky!"

"Lucky?"

"Lucky! The battery exploded! Mel brought me to Joe. He looked at me and said: what a waste! Never trust those barons again! Gave them an in-vest-man and got back a one-eyed freak. OK, Jassy, your career is over, back to your stinky 'Fill! Get lost, he said. But I went to the 'Fill, like, dancing! For me, I'd better scoop shit... Sorry, – poo from latrines – than to be a hooker..."

Rodrigo appeared at the dam, out of breath, holding a banana leaf with four rice balls and a Walkie-Talkie. He stuffed the leaf into Jasmine's hands, and reported, panting: "We got a roll-call. Something big: three dead, five injured. I'd better run."

"Do I need to come with you, Sergeant?" Mark asked.

"Nope, thank you. Not an FBI's jurisdiction. The usual, shit like this happens here every day. Oh, my rice ball..." He picked the bitten rice ball from the banana leaf and rushed in the direction of the landfill. Sergeant Inspector had high adrenaline again. With such a stressful job, – too easy to gain weight!

"Would you like a rice ball, Mister Mark?" Jasmine offered. "They're yummy."

Mark hesitated, but took the treat. Strange, but the landfill smell had disappeared. Whether it was due to the little breeze at the dam, or because Mark was already saturated with stench, and his brain refused to register it. The rice ball was surprisingly tasty.

"So, I got a white eye, and wasn't a slave no more," Jasmine said after making a tiny bite of her rice ball. "Auntie Kun... Really, she is not my auntie. The barons call it so: they're all 'aunties' and 'uncles.' So Auntie Kun said: you're a cripple now, so here is your tin, go begging, ask for food scraps, whatever. I see you at Day-Pay, – you're dead meat! The barons have such a rule. If you lose an eye or a finger, or if too many scars, you can't go to Day-Pay no more." It would blow their cover, Mark thought. Three years ago, if any girl with Auntie Kun had an acid burn, he would send the freaking handler straight to jail – without questions!

"But I met you at the Day-Pay."

"I went with the tin, but couldn't collect much. I'm not a vet, and have two arms and two legs. Who would give?"

Say NO to beggars, Mark recalled the Salvation Way window poster.

Jasmine bit her rice ball and continued: "So I said: Jassy, you're a spec'list! Find a job yourself! Auntie Kun just pupped a baby, and wasn't at Day-Pay, good deal! I got a job almost right away. One nice lady hired me to work in her gang."

"As a battery girl?"

"A pit-checker. Do you know rot-pits?"

"Sergeant told me today. Is it like a huge pimple in the ground?"

"A pit-checker must be very light and very brave. I was light – like steer-of-foam."

"Styrofoam, Jasmine. And brave?"

"Brave? Oh, I was shit... I mean: very scared. Sorry. These words, – at the 'Fill, we use them all the time, but they're bad! So, yeah, I was very-very-very scared. But didn't show it! Then, everybody in the gang said: Jassy, you never miss a rot-pit, stay in our gang peer-ma-neatly. It's a special word. Means: 'all you want.' My new boss bought me a fake paper, like, I'm already fourteen. They paid OK, so we pulled Millie and Bertie out of that stupid re-circled paper shop."

"From the barons?"

"Yeah. I came to the boys one evening and said: don't sleep. After the master is gone, count to twenty thousand in your head, get up real quiet, climb over the fence, and I'll be waiting for you outside."

"Did it work OK?"

"Not hundred pur-scent OK. On the first night, I was waiting and waiting, and they didn't come. Millie was counting – and fell asleep! But on the second night, I gave him a pin. Said: stick into your arm every five hundred! And our boys got out. The barons couldn't do nothing. If kids aren't hungry, the barons can't do nothing at all!"

"Your brothers went back to school, did they?"

Jasmine replied with proud smile: "Yeah! Mel sent them back to school! She came, told the Deputy Headmaster: such and such, our parents are dead, but we can pay the school fees now. Millie and Bertie are two years behind, but no probs."

"And after school, do your brothers work at the 'Fill?"

"Four hours a day. Our boss pays them one quarter of a day-pay..."

"OK. Tell me about Nick."

"I don't have much. Mom and Dad never talked about him... Nick showed up in Houston one year ago. He was still on crutches. Without a leg, do you know?"

"I was at the crime scene."

"Yeah. He was in Venezuela, and they sent him to this boat... a floating hospital. He called it 'Dumpster,' so weird. I always thought 'dumpster' is like a big garbage box. Long-long time ago people gave their garbage to landfill no-pay, do you know?"

Long-long time ago. Back in 2021, Houston still had a garbage collection service. Once a month, a truck came to their neighborhood to take away solid waste. But people knew better, and almost all garbage was processed and reused on the spot. Food leftovers – to the compost bin, or for the poor, anything burnable – to a fireplace, metals – to local blacksmiths, old electronics – to repair shops. More often than not, their dumpster was empty. Eventually, the truck stopped coming.

"When Nick landed in Galveston, he decided to come and see his Dad's other family. He called us like this: 'Dad's other family.' Weird, is it? He and Mel went to the parents' graves... Mel told Nick everything. How Mom and Dad died, and about Joe Vo, and how she became a slave hooker. So Nick said: gimme one year. Now I'm no good – a cripple on crutches. But I get myself a new leg, and help you out of this mess. And then – he used his free pass for a military charter and went to New York..."

"Nick returned to Houston three weeks ago, is it right?"

"Yeah, about three weeks. I was so impressed how he learned to walk on his new leg. You wouldn't guess it atre-ficial. Only, if you look at his bike. He brought a bike from New York, with a bracket... Oh, and he had a plan."

"How to get you four out of here?"

"It was only about Mel. Millie, Bertie and me – we could go any time. We're not slaves! But Mel – no, they would start looking for her. By one PM, Mel had to be at work. One time she was late, so Joe told her: I won't touch your pretty face, darling. Your skin is too precious. Giving you a black eye, he said, is like pulling money out of my pocket and throwing at Day-Pay. But your sister Jassy – oh, she will pay for you! Dearly. This time, no big deal, – we give her a beauty spa with a hot shower. But once again you come late, he said, I'll send my boys to the 'Fill to give your Jassy a proper nose job. Do you know what it is, Mister Mark?"

"Cut your nose off?" Mark saw such a gangs' mark, many times – on photographs, and twice – in real. Not a pretty sight.

"Yeah! Joe said: after a nose job your one-eyed Jassy can be a queen of the 'Fill..."

"What is the beauty spa?"

"They find a latrine, so it's almost full, and push you through the hole, head first. Straight into sh... Poo! You try to get out, and they say: wanna hot shower? Stand at the hole and pee on you."

Mark swallowed. He was aware of this punishment too, only under a different name: show our guest to the bathroom and let him wash his face. "Did they do this... to you?"

"No. Thanks God! Mel begged Joe to leave me alone. But she was very scared. About the nose job, Joe wasn't joking. Mel saw how they made a nose job to one priva-tear. 'Priva-tear' is a special word, means: a legal hooker, with a chip, who doesn't want no pimp."

"And what plan did Nick come up with?"

"He decided to find a job in Houston. From time to time, he would come to Joe and buy Mel for a full night. As if he was only a customer. Joe didn't know Mel had a stepbrother, and they didn't look alike, so Joe would never guess. Nick wanted to do this few times, so Joe thinks Nick is a regular of Mel. The hookers often have regulars, right? They also decided to go to the woods, like Nick doesn't like sex in a share-room. This happens too. Then, Nick would buy Mel for a whole week, and we've plenty time to get away from Houston."

Heck, this plan might have worked, Mark thought. Only if they would not meet the Butcher on the very first night!

"It was a good plan, Jasmine. Nick and Mel were just unlucky. It was Sheldon Butcher, and not Joe. FBI has special methods how to distinguish a serial killer from copycats. Joe sent his pass girl to the cemetery, for Nick's and Mel's funerals: to check who was actually killed. Consider, if he himself ordered to kill them – would he bother sending someone? Do you think Joe will not leave you alone after Mel's death?"

"I was afraid it... It was Joe who killed Mel and Nick. So I told Bertie and Millie: we'd better sleep at the 'Fill. Spending the night at the 'Fill is ab-so-lutely prohibited. 'Ab-so-lutely,' it's a special word, for the guards. It means we have to pay them fifty bucks instead of five."

"You may sleep at home now."

"With Joe – you never sure. Now he is pissed off his slave is dead and his in-vest-man – became ugly... Am I ugly?"

"Just the opposite, Jasmine. You're very pretty, trust me. Joe has wrong standards. He doesn't understand human beauty. He's not a human himself, that's why..."

"Joe may send his 'boys' to give me a nose job, just for fun. Or, they do something bad to Millie and Bertie. Brake the fingers, so they can't work or study. We'd better sleep in the trench. I can pay fifty bucks. Ab-so-lutely."

It would be so nice to make a manly face, stick out your square chin and say: I'll be back! – Mark fantasized. His imagination drew how he, together with Sergeant Investigator Zuiko, bursts into Joe Vo's lair. For an incomprehensible reason, Joe was sitting behind a huge computer screen, like a typical villain in a spy movie re-run. Mark clutched two Uzi guns, spent cartridges flew in all directions, and Vo's 'boys' got peppered with neat bullet holes. Joe wet his pants. With an audible crunch, Sarge broke Joe's vertebrae... Finally, Mark returned to the dam, slightly wounded and a bit tired, and said: You may go home, Jasmine. Joe has no time for you. He has a little trouble – with his neck...

But Mark was a mere FBI agent, not an action hero. They lived in prosaic 2030, not in the Schwarzenegger-Wallace-Eastwood 1980-s. The Uzi one could borrow at the Station weapons room, but only with due approval, which Benito Ferelli seldom gave, considering their perpetual ammo shortage. The borrower had to account for every spent cartridge. The Police had a sad joke that any officer should always leave the last bullet in the gun. After finishing your operation – shoot yourself in the head, and no problems. Much faster and way more enjoyable than to fill paperwork.

Instead of I'll be back, Mark told Jasmine, "I have a plan. Have you studied Chemistry?"

"I've only four grades. Income-platted. Didn't finish the last two months. No good?"

"Never mind." Mark got up and dialed a mobile of Frederick Stolz.

"Can you give me a favor, Fred?" Mark asked after the greetings.

"For you, Mark, – anything!"

"At your plant – is where a place to sleep? Three teenagers, for a couple of weeks? Consider it under the FBI Witness Protection." That's how we do the Witness Protection nowadays, Mark said to himself. The FBI had no budget for it anymore, so they had to improvise.

"Three teens? They can sleep in our office. Only – no particular comforts. The 'office' is a much glorified name. You may call it anything, the shack remains a shack. But if your teens are fine sleeping on the floor, we can improvise something. Our night watchman should be happy. He can send the kids to fetch water or look after the boiler."

"Fine, we will be at your place in twenty minutes. Please, don't be scared. I'm a bit... muddy. It looks as if I have been digging garbage all day long."

# Chapter 17

Mark decided not to return to the Station. Initially, he wanted to wash himself at Frederick's plant, but discovered its water was not any better than in the landfill pond. He selected the safer option, and came to West Canal, a quarter-mile from their own backyard. Lucky enough, it was raining. He needed neither explain his wet clothes to Mary, nor apologize for abusing their water supply.

The neighbors had a long standing dispute, if the West Canal could be used for drinking. Some pointed the water originated from Sheldon Reservoir, and thus should be safe enough, if only all the neighbors upstream did not use it for laundry. Others insisted hence the most had no other way, soap should be allowed in the canal, and for the drinking water everybody must go to the community well or even all the way to the Reservoir. In Mark's family, they preferred the latter, and the canal water was only for veggies.

Shivering under drizzle, Mark undressed to his underpants and tried to wash mud from his clothes. The canal smelt of cheap soap and dirty latrine. Soon later, the distinct landfill odor had joined the bouquet, and almost made Mark throwing up. Fatty mud refused to dissolve. After cleaning his clothes and shoes the best he could, Mark tried to wash himself. Granted, he would need a shower at home to feel more or less fresh. Unfortunately, the shower would be equally cold. The day had been cloudy from the morning, and their barrel had no chance to catch any sun.

At least, his trip to the 'Fill was not entirely useless. Despite the advice from Washington, Mark found the girl. Jasmine and her brothers did not need to sleep it the trench anymore. Perhaps, Jasmine found herself a better job. Frederick Stolz was very impressed with her practical knowledge of plastics, even if she did not know any Chemistry. As a bonus, Mark made reasonable progress on the investigation front. He did not like if any questions remained unanswered. Now all the information fit into the picture, and the last crime scene contained no mysteries. Apart from the mystery of the serial killer identity, Mark reminded himself.

With a bit of luck, Alex would deal with Joe Vo. Not by the Uzi guns, as in Mark's imagination. Too perfect for a solution. Even during the golden pre-Meltdown times, the Police and the FBI did not eliminate organized crime. Their best hope was to keep the gangsters under tight control, a fine dynamic balance.

How Alex once put it, a classical ballet of sorts. This guy in black is our villain. And this handsome young man in white – our hero. They jump, and turn, and spin, and wave papier mâché swords. The triumphant brass sounds must eventually come from the orchestra, so the villain can hit the stage in agony. But then, at the very end, the villain in black and the hero in white appear hand-in-hand in front of the public, bowing, in the row of the other dancers, – to enjoy their well-deserved standing ovation.

"And now imagine," Alex said, "instead of the paper sword, the white hero pulls a real one. And chops the villain – in little pieces. Blood all over the stage! The head flies to parterre! Or, the black villain, instead of a triple pirouette, makes a for-real Karate kick, and the white hero is carried away with permanent brain damage. No standing ovation! The matter of fact, most spectators will be rather disappointed with the show. You must not violate the rules of the art!"

"The Police and the Mafia can happily co-exist. Like those heroes and villains on stage. We deliver a perfect show: day in and day out. What we really fight, and from both sides, are unorganized crime and unorganized militia. In my ballet example, it's like the spectators, after getting few shots of Cognac too many during the intermission, climb onto the stage and try to dance alongside the pros. No-o-o, we don't want any of those bozos around!"

When Mark phoned Alex, Russian Bear was positive he could fix the issue.

"No problem," he explained Mark, "now we have all the information we need. If pulling info out of Joe Vo is next to impossible, giving him the right hints is easy. A matter of right conversation strategy."

"What strategy?" Mark asked.

"Simple. I will give Joe a friendly call. First, we talk weather. It's unusually wet for April, isn't it? Then, we talk hobbies. I boast my brand-new gas torch. I kid you not: it can be set for any temperature, from six hundred to thirteen hundred degrees! A must-have for your garage! Recommended! Then, I tell Joe he is fifty-five already and should pay close attention to his health. With your smoking and drinking habits, Joe, you should consider regular proctologic exams!"

"All this sounds peaceful enough."

"Absolutely. Then, we start talking the running business, and I will 'leak' Vo the FBI got a good grip on the Butcher case. He will show no interest, of course, but he will listen. He has been keen enough to send Lien to the funerals, after all. I tell Vo: we've learned the dead girl is an unlicensed hooker, that she is from GRS, and we're closely watching her remaining siblings. These kids are our primary witnesses for the Sheldon Butcher case! If something happens to these kids at all, I say, – I will find whoever did it and give a free gas-proctologic exam!"

"Gas-proctologic?"

"Almost like a standard proctologic exam, only with a gas torch. As the history goes, the original version of this delicate medical procedure was developed in Russia, back in the nineties. The Police used it for speedy recovery of forgotten computer passwords, and the Mafia – for money transfers: from one secret Swiss bank account to another. Or was it the opposite way around? Sadly, the technology was inferior, and they utilized electric soldering irons, with no temperature controls. Barbarians!"

Mark shivered. You would never guess if the Bear described real things or imaginary. "OK. To this, I am sure, Joe will listen."

"Not even because of the gas torch. For starters, Joe made enough money on Amelia alone, and hopefully would prefer to keep his ass intact instead of going after the Hobson kids. Secondly, he doesn't want to be associated with the Butcher in any way. Bad for his business. Finally, I believe, I am famous around the local gangs. After my last publicity stunt..."

"Wow! You did shoot that poor bastard in the foot, did you?"

Alex chuckled and repeated word-to-word what he told the judge: "I have no recollection, Your Honor. The gun had no fingerprints, right? I believe no good policeman should do such a thing..." Then, he chuckled again: "strictly between us, partner, the idiot shot himself. Bloody macho! His cartridge in the chamber, his safety – off. And a faulty catch for a bonus! Wanted to show me how proficient he was with the gun! But humbly, who am I to spoil him such a nice story? The young man may lose his face..."

Mark had no doubts that Alex had mastered his part in the classic Police-versus-Mafia ballet. Sadly, with the world falling apart, the methods on both sides were getting less and less civilized. All these gruesome nose jobs, and beauty spas, and now the gas-proctologic exams... How cool when the worst-case scenario was to send somebody to sleep with the fishes!

Another achievement of the day besides the investigation: he visited Frederick's plant and checked on Samantha's new job. The last three years, Mark promised himself so many times to come and see what exactly Mike had been doing! From Mike's stories, the job was a lot like a mad scientist lab and dealt with nasty chemicals, but Mike came home happy, and every Saturday – with a little bundle of cash in his pocket. Frankly, Mark was afraid to go. He did not mistrust Frederick's judgment, but kept hearing all these horror stories about the garbage recycling workshops and their total disregard to safety.

True, Mark had been shocked at first. When he and Jasmine came to the plant, Fred and Samantha were draining yellowish synthetic gasoline from the bomb. Irritated with fumes, Mark's eyes instantly became watery, and he sneezed several times. Like in a sick science-fiction movie, Samantha and Frederick had heavily scratched plastic goggles, their noses were pinched with clothes line clips, and in their mouths both had corrugated plastic pipes. On the opposite side, the pipes joined into a large-diameter sewage riser running onto the roof.

"Step back," Frederick ordered, momentarily pulling his pipe from the mouth. Because of the clip, his voice sounded funny. He took a deep breath from the pipe, preparing for the next sentence. "This will only take another minute or two."

The gasoline stopped dripping from the drain valve, and Frederick turned the handle. He took one more breath from his pipe, plugged the end with a plastic cap and let the pipe go. "OK, all clear. Have to re-load this one, and we're done for today," he approached Mark and removed the goggles.

Mark smelled the air. The gas fumes almost dissipated. "What are these pipes, Fred?"

"We call them snorkels. Arne's invention," Frederick explained, "we used to have respirators, but their filters eventually become pretty wasted. It's difficult to get good phenol filters now."

"Wow, it's so cool!" Jasmine said. "The paper shop had no snore-kills. Bertie and Millie always had red eyes from working with gee-paw-claw-reete!"

Frederick smiled. "Working with what, again?"

"Gee-paw-claw-reete, sir. Like a bleach. For making re-circled paper white again."

"Oh, that's sodium hypochlorite! How did you remember it all: gee-paw-claw...?"

While Mark introduced Jasmine to Frederick, Samantha finished with the jerrycan lids and approached the trio.

"Sam, have you tested the potash weight yet?" Frederick asked.

"Almost done, Mister Stolz. The titration is ready, just need to finish my calculations. Five minutes, tops."

"Great! And you, Jass, may go look around. But categorically, don't touch any valves, OK?"

Mark glanced down and discovered that his daughter was working barefoot. "Samantha! What the hell happened to your boots?"

"Ah... the boots?" She made a worried glance. The industrial rubber boots were still secured under the trike seat, exactly as she put them at home.

"Samantha, you promised Mom to have your boots on. This morning, remember?"

Samantha employed her standard evasion tactic. She smiled, looked at her feet, as if she just realized she forgot her sandals, and wiggled her toes. "But Dad! It was raining all night! The mud is so-o-o soft today!" She always had a suitable excuse. If raining, the ground was 'so-o-o soft,' if sunny, – 'so-o-o warm,' and in the winter it could very well be 'so-o-o cool.' If pavement looked clean (and no pavement was really clean since the Meltdown), she called it 'squeaky-clean.' And if not, – the words were either: 'such a nice dust' or 'such a nice mud in my toes,' depending on weather. Always – enjoyable! Like: Dad, why have you never tried going barefoot yourself?

Mark mentioned how Jasmine wiggled her toes in the mud. She probably wondered what the entire conversation was about. The rot-pit spec'list did not remember how it felt to be shod, and for her having 'so-o-o soft' or 'so-o-o warm' mud between her toes was neither unpleasant, nor enjoyable. Mud like mud, nothing special.

"Please, Samantha. I don't mind if you go to school with no shoes, but you can't work barefoot at the 'Fill."

"Why can't, Dad? The mud is slippery! With no boots – it's way safer!"

"Safer? What if you step on something nasty and cut your foot?"

"But why should I step on something nasty first place? I'm not a sissy, like Mickey and Billy. I've been going with no tires since I was ten!"

Frederick listened to their fight with a smile. He had cheap tire sandals, but not the chemical rubber boots, as one might expect at a mad scientist lab. "Mark, give my Chief Technologist a break. If Sam is comfy barefoot, it's perfectly fine. We don't leave broken glass around. Everybody work like this, and Moon doesn't fall to Earth. What's the problem?"

He pointed at the workers across the yard who were sorting and shredding plastic scrap in front of reactor number one. No chemical boots were in sight, or any other footwear, as the matter of fact. Only a young man, at the top of scaffolding, had flip-flops on.

"But... Fred, this is a chemical plant!"

"A chemical plant, so what?"

"You're a chemical engineer, you must know better! Back before the Meltdown, you had occupational safety regulations... What, is it all gone now?"

"We have perfect occupational safety here, Mark. Take our snorkels. They allow us to breathe clean air while draining and loading the bombs. And after the bomb is sealed, nothing leaks out, and snorkels are unnecessary. This is called engineering control. Meaning we understand the hazard and address it – technically, as real engineers supposed to do. And for the safety regulations, not safety, mind you, but the 'regulations' part, they're all crap!"

"Why so?"

"Because the regulations are what they are. The regulations. Procedural controls. It means you have to do it right, or else! Before, our plant had a lot of these 'no second chance' procedures, but now only one left. All the rest were engineered out – we made them either foolproof safe or semi-automatic, by the engineering controls. Arne kept scratching his head how to automate this last one, so no human is required, but so far, no luck. It's tricky."

"But what about personal protective equipment? I remember, before the Meltdown, everybody had to wear PPE at all times. Not only in the industry. The Police and the FBI had the same rules too."

"Oh, the bloody PPE at all times! I had it in 'Burton – up to here!" Frederick pointed to his neck. "Put it this way. The engineering controls – are for those who are both hard-working and smart. You got to use your brain to invent the safe way, and then apply your hands to build the machine. Then, you may relax a bit. Your machine works, and you collect the cash. The procedural controls are for hard-working simpletons. Don't invent, do as we tell you, and do it right. And personal protective equipment at all time – for those who are either lazy or stupid. If you aren't smart to figure out how to pass your dangerous work to a machine, and aren't hard-working to do it by the book, – what's left? You may wrap yourself in all kinds of Nomex coveralls, and goggles, and a hard-hat, and crash-proof gloves. PPE helps. A little. Instead of a ninety-percent fourth-degree burn, you're in for an eighty-percent fourth-degree burn. Any better?"

"Are you telling me PPE is not needed at your plant? Is everything so safe?"

"I didn't tell you PPE was not needed! Just not needed most of the time. That operation I mentioned: pouring the neutralizer. It does require rubber boots, acid-resistant gloves, a full face shield, and a leather apron. Also, a pair of manly balls in your pants. Concentrated sulfuric acid is no joke! Will eat you through, right to the bones – in seconds. Most importantly, you got to pour the acid just right: not too slow, and not too fast, and keep an eye on your pressure gauge. If the bomb splits, no rubber boots can save your feet, and no apron saves the rest! In nearly four years this little plant had been in operation, I've never trusted the neutralizer to anyone, even Mike and Arne. You guys, have the brains and the balls, but not enough gray hair. Mind you, this neutralizer pouring is a two-minute deal, three times a day. But if I walk in rubber boots, leather apron, and chem-gloves – all day long, I will look an idiot! And soon become one!"

"About the idiot part, Fred, you are surely exaggerating."

"Nope. The COMMON SENSE. All letters capital! PPE at all times was to prevent lawsuits from the injured employees. A proven fact: PPE did not decrease the number of accidents! You want to know why? If you wear PPE at all time, and not only if needed for the job in-hand, your COMMON SENSE goes out of the window. The people start believing somebody else has to do all the thinking for them: a manager, a safety officer, a CEO, whoever, but not you personally. Then, the brass comes around, and starts a new campaign: Safety is your responsibility. The workers nod: as you say, sir. No mutual trust, whatsoever. The director is a cheap buffoon, and his safety officer is a cheap buffoon, and the employees are all buffoons. Instead of a working business, they have a dysfunctional circus – in goggles, metal-nose boots and Nomex coveralls! From this angle, the Meltdown wasn't necessary a bad thing. Workers re-learned how to think for themselves, and not blame the management for their own stupidity..."

"Hey, but what about all these industrial accidents at the 'Fill, Fred? Today – three dead!"

"Yep! The bloody Steam Scav! We told them right away: your design is not foolproof! You can't trust a human operator to throw the rope on the pulley exactly right, time after time, every time. Procedural controls! On the 'Fill, too many scavs are from the pre-Meltdown generation, all these former directors, safety officers, and other such marketologists and merchandizes. The former cheap buffoons, from the dysfunctional circus... But in any case, the Steam Scav accident today has nothing to do with wearing or not wearing PPE at all time. If a three hundred pound anchor is coming at you with two thousand pound pull, no coverall can save your guts. Make your coverall from carbon steel, and walk like a medieval knight! It will not help a bit."

Meanwhile, Samantha went to a cluttered chemical bench under the shed to fetch her notebook: stained and dog-eared, this treasure she inherited from Mike along with his trike and the rubber boots. She flipped the notebook to its elastic band and started her computations. The number-crunching was tricky. From time to time, Samantha stopped, bit the end of the pencil and banged her mud-stained toes lightly on the concrete floor. Finally, the math was completed, and the Chief Technologist came over to present her findings to the CEO.

Fred scrutinized the page and nodded. "One hundred and twenty-two pounds. Sounds about right. This batch is not as good. But if I were you, Sam, I'd add four pounds. Remember what I told you yesterday about safety factors?"

"Real engineers always wear both the belt and the suspenders!" Samantha reported.

"Correct! Denny is nearly done with the scrap loading. Please go and ask him to give you a hand with the weighting. After that, the entire gang may go for a coffee-break. Remind them not to smoke around the bombs. We don't want any open fire in here!"

"Right away, Mister Stolz!" Samantha turned to go, a little too fast to look natural.

My daughter tries to prevent me from sticking her into the boots for the rest of the day, Mark guessed. The mud between her toes is so wonderfully soft. Frederick is right, should I give Samantha a break? Now the chemical plant did not appear as dangerous as some backyards in their own neighborhood, especially the ones, which used the 'perfectly harmless' Simpson and Kaufman fertilizer.

"Samantha?" Mark called.

"What, Dad?"

"Your rubber boots..."

"But Dad!"

"I am just saying, it's OK. You have my, strictly unofficial, permission to work without boots at this plant only. But as far as telling our Mom, this conversation had never happened. Understood?"

Samantha shined a megawatt smile, and answered as Mark once taught her: "I don't recall, sir. What conversation are you talking about?"

"Oh, I see the FBI influence," Frederick laughed.

"But, Samantha," Mark continued. "This permission is for this yard only! If you have to go outside, especially to the landfill, please, have your boots on. Promise?"

"Real promise, Dad! Definitely! Absolutely!" She had no intention to put her boots on, but what could Mark do about it?

Frederick started explaining his technological process: shredded plastic scraps were loaded into a bomb and cooked with alkaline and hot steam at such and such pressure, then pH was reversed with the neutralizer, and so on. He drew chemical formulas for Mark, but Mark was not listening.

Instead, he observed how Samantha walked through the yard. She came to reactor number three, confidently put her bare foot on rusted scaffolding and tapped her finger on a pressure gauge. Satisfied with the readings, she approached workers at the base of bomb number one and picked a handful of shredded plastic from a bucket. Finally, Samantha started a conversation with the young man in flip-flops who was standing on the scaffolding platform with a corrugated snorkel in his mouth, feeding white powder into the bomb's open hatch.

Our Chief Technologist at work! Another domestic Civil War battle was brewing.

# Chapter 18

How do we call our new battle? 'I Wanna Be A Scav' The rubber boots story was a mere skirmish in the woods. The 'Confederates' commander repelled the 'Union' bayonet assault and would be triumphantly stomping her so-o-o soft mud with her anti-sissy bare feet. The 'Union' scouts under Mark's command declared defeat and decided to pull back, regroup, and write to their Commander-In-Chief nothing had happened. The main battle was still ahead.

Before the Meltdown, like Santa with his lists of nice and naughty, Mary had the lists of 'appropriate' and 'not appropriate.' If you wanted to go out, the clothes must be appropriate: nearly-new and perfectly clean. A freshly washed and pressed T-shirt, but with a little irremovable stain, or with a tiny tear, was nice for home, but naughty otherwise, even for a gym.

If the stain happened to be larger than the appropriate size the T-shirt had to go. Around the shopping malls, they had donation drop-off containers – clothes for underprivileged. Or you dropped the unwanted items in front of a Thrift Store. The middle-class repaired only expensive stuff: fur coats and such. Black FBI suits were considered expendables, not worth mending. After six or seven dry cleaning cycles, the poor thing became 'not appropriate' and would end up its illustrious career in a donation box.

Strolling barefoot on the beach was nice. The same at the shopping mall would pin you to the naughty list. Colorful flip-flops were perfect for a shopping mall, but not appropriate for a restaurant dinner. A playground time ultimately called for a pair of Nikes. Even for visiting water parks two times per year, they had special 'wet shoes.' As anything else before the Meltdown: excessive and wasteful.

With the appropriate and not appropriate lists, came an insurmountable problem of choice. Before the Meltdown, Mark had almost fifty shirts, forty or so neckties and ten belts. Plus the suspenders and ten pairs of shoes! Never could match them all together! Each time he selected a shirt and a necktie, Mary said, "Mark, darling, can't you see they don't match?" Mark would quietly agree and take another tie, just to discover this particular tie did not match Mary's tonight's dress. Mary had fifty pairs of evening shoes. Some of them had designation for a particular dress, and thus she pulled them out of the box once every two years.

Back in 2017, China suffered major civil unrest, with riots hitting the streets of every major city. The Chinese government crushed opposition with tanks, after shutting down the Internet and mobile phone networks, – and reported 'business as usual.' The endless container ships with goods continued coming to the delivery points overseas, so the 'minor human rights issues' were immediately forgotten, even by the most inexorable human rights activists. But within a year, China got too involved in the regional wars all over South-East Asia, and the imports – ended.

Their neighbors suddenly remembered they had sewing machines. First, the evening dresses were converted into every-day ones. Then, all the other bits of fabric: curtains, table-cloths, and so on, – became clothes. The ladies got better with their craft, and just ten years past the crisis, the garage production was not any worse than the Chinese and Bangladeshi imports. Mary's fancy evening shoes, one pair after another, went to a flea market. At the peak of the crisis, designer high-heels bartered for a second-hand military T-shirt or two pounds of pork: better than nothing.

But the appropriate and not appropriate lists – remained! To go out, must change this – not appropriate – ex-military T-shirt with large holes to that – appropriate – ex-military T-shirt with small holes and patches. Mark struggled to grasp the logic Mary applied to those T-shirt holes! Apparently, the hole size had some significance, but one also should consider the hole position relative to the belly button, and if the hole looked round or elongated.

Mary accepted that slum kids had to go in progressively worse clothes and more often than not – with no shoes. Perhaps, their poor parents could not afford the military second-hand. Even if they could, a set of clothes was intended to pass from one child to another, and serve for five or six full years. Yet, once a year Mary went to the school Parents' Association meeting and voted for the appropriate uniform: exclusive of unapproved holes and inclusive of mandatory tire sandals. Last year, her 'appropriate uniform' party was outvoted seven to eighty-nine.

While their kids were young, they listened to Mom and Dad. Then, about four years ago, a revolution came! Mark often called it 'our domestic version of the Civil War.'

The Civil War was declared on a beautiful Spring day. Mark returned home from the Station with his service Glock in a concealed holster and thirty-four thousand dollars of his monthly salary in the pocket. Unlike the pre-Meltdown times, salaries were not transferred to bank accounts: no such banks existed anymore. The few remaining establishments in Houston, with Fort Knox security, performed other types of transactions, totally irrelevant to common public. Rampaging inflation made savings pointless. You got the money, and you spent all, as fast as possible. Mark was happy. Finally, David-senior had his bladder infection under control and no more antibiotics were needed, all the debts paid, and all the immediate necessities purchased. This time over, Mark could complete his promise and buy Samantha the new baseball hat and school sandals, – for three months, she had to go to school in bare feet. Back then, Mary somehow believed it was a cruel punishment.

Mark found Mary with their two immediate cul-de-sac neighbors: Mrs. Kong from the left and Mrs. Levin from the right. The ladies sat at the back deck, engaged in their regular vegetable beds' planning session. An agricultural co-operation of sorts. Mrs. Kong was traditionally good at growing tomatoes, egg-plants, and paw-paws. Mary specialized in cucumbers and bell peppers. Mrs. Levin excelled at growing spices and marijuana, simultaneously becoming a renown local expert in blending roasted acorns and some other secret ingredients for coffee substitutes. Quite not appropriate, all three refined ladies were dressed in the husbands' shirts and old pants, and barefoot. But they just made ten walks to West Canal, carrying four gallons of water on each trip, so Mary mentally moved their working attire into the gray area between 'nice' and 'naughty.'

"Got the money, darling?" Mary inquired.

Mark patted his front pocket. "Shall I call Samantha?"

"Why are you even asking? For the hat, go to Bell's General Store. But first, check the cobbler's cart. Please make sure the size is not tight. And don't overpay. It's market, darling. Negotiate the price, OK?"

Mark assured Mary he would negotiate (negotiating the price – he hated the most), stack his head into the house and yelled, "Samantha! Get yourself dressed. Now! We are going to get your new sandals!"

Ninety seconds later, Samantha rolled downstairs, accompanied by Pamela, who also changed into the appropriate street clothes. The girls approached their Daddy from both sides and simultaneously kissed him in both cheeks. Mark suspected the girls wanted to ask for something special.

"Daddy," Samantha started, "I'm thinking. Those school tires. I don't want them anymore. They are so-o-o out of fashion."

"And what would you like instead?" Mark asked. Fashion! Now my daughter demands hand-painted wooden slippers. Or does she want the last pair of Mary's high-heel shoes? With the school uniform, made out of old camo? Ridiculous!

"Tires are useless," Samantha said. "Everybody in our class go barefoot."

Mary slapped the table. "I don't care about everybody! Going to school without sandals is not appropriate. Shut up and go get the school sandals, as I told you."

But Samantha did not want to shut up. "Mom! But you're not listening! I'm thinking: if we skip the tires... We can save money for something... practical."

"And what is 'practical' for you right now?" Mark asked.

"Oh, if you don't mind, can I get kama'a-ole? They're not too expensive: five hundred dollars, max! We have a new shop near our school. A nice lady, she designs anklets and kama'a-ole, and all such stuff. So cool! Please, Daddy, please, please..."

"Kama-what? Never heard of such a thing," Mary said.

"I know," Ruth Levin said. "Invented, I believe, in India, in five thousand BC. It's not that people forgotten this major civilization advance, but the youth fashion started in Houston only this year. The name has not settled yet: the kids can't make a choice between 'ceylons,' 'payal,' or 'kama'a-ole.' Both my daughters already have a pair. Hey, the craze is to the point I'm thinking getting a pair for myself!"

Ruth Levin must know all these new fashion trends. The Levins were those post-Meltdown neo-hippie types. Unlike Mary, Ruth never insisted that her daughters were 'appropriate,' and probably had never used this word in such sense. As far as Mark remembered, the neighbor girls went unshod, and were allowed to roam the northern slums and play in the mud with the slum kids all they wanted. Which did not prevent them from growing well-behaved, reasonably well-educated, healthy, and very smart.

Ruth looked around and realized that the older generation still had no idea what the hell those kama'a-ole were. "Oh, I guess I must explain. Kama'a-ole is a Hawaiian word for a pair of matching anklets, but with strings of beads running between the anklet and the second toe. Incredibly sexy! Imagine a pair of fancy evening sandals, but with no soles whatsoever."

"Huh! Do you mean: 'barefoot sandals'? Nonsense!" Mrs. Kong said. In her family, they knew the meaning of 'appropriate!' "I presume those sandals may be fashionable and even sexy, but what is so darn practical about them?"

"What do you understand in modern teenage fashion, my dear?" Mrs. Levin more stated than asked. "Kama'a-ole are very practical! For starters, they don't give you blisters. Unlike wooden jandals, they don't jump off your feet. In barefoot sandals, it's not only possible, but highly recommended – to splash through rain puddles. They're cool and awesome. Because of all the above, – they attract boys! No comparison with those ugly school tires, which repel the opposite sex. 'So-o-o out of fashion' is an understatement. The tires were no place near fashion – from the beginning. Besides, Sam is right: tires are useless in our wet, tropical climate."

"I always believed Houston climate was sub-tropical," Mark finally found what to say.

"You forgot the global warming, Mark!" Mrs. Levin dismissively waved her hand, "now we're as tropical as Hawaii. Nothing wrong with Hawaiian kama'a-ole in Houston."

Mark nodded. I guess, our younger generation just likes fashions from faraway lands. Before, the exotic destinations were for sale. If you wanted to see Hawaii, you got yourself a tour. Like the honeymoon trip of Mary and Mark: a business-class air ticket to Honolulu and a six-star hotel for four nights. Unforgettable, and the only pity it ended so quickly! Now Hawaii were still an American State, but no news came since the Pacific Fleet stopped operating from the islands. The younger generation had to invent the exotics right here, at home. Couldn't buy an air ticket to Hawaii, could you?

Meanwhile, Ruth Levin asked Pamela: "How about you, Pam? Want a pair of kama'a-ole?"

"Not really. But I thought, if Sammy getting her new sandals, I can go with Dad too and get myself a calflet!"

"A calf-what?" Mark asked. Curiouser and curiouser, by the minute!

"A calf-let, Dad!" nine-year-old Pamela had to explain the fundamentals to her ignorant Daddy, "it's like an ank-let, but you wear it under your knee. On the calf! That's why it's called 'calf-let'!"

At this point, Mary made an angry face and said, "No anklets, no calflets, no barefoot sandals, no – whatever! You, Pamela, will stay home. Samantha goes with Daddy now – for the new pair of the standard! School! Sandals! End of the story..."

Mark saw tears in Pamela's eyes and decided to back-off a little. "OK, hence Pamela is dressed already, she can go with us to the market."

They ended up buying a pair of robust, ugly, and totally appropriate tire sandals for Samantha, but could not escape visiting the garage shop near the daughters' school. The barefoot sandals were indeed cute, but Mark had to agree with Mrs. Kong, – impractical. The 'nice lady' was about thirty-five, also a neo-hippie type, the same as the Levins. Mark disobeyed Mary's standing orders, and both his daughters received bead calflets. Thus, the 'Union' won the first battle, but with a hint of the future 'Confederates' victories.

From that point onwards, the 'Civil War' progressed slowly. Barefoot, but resourceful and determined South against ironclad, but indecisive North. Initially, the 'Union' was represented by Mark and Mary, and the 'Confederates' – by Samantha and Pamela. William and little Patrick maintained strict neutrality, while foxy Michael joined either party for short-term political gains.

Some battles were fought matter-of-factly and won by little blood. Like the battle of 'No School Tires to The Market.' Mary just smiled and let the girls do as they pleased. Samantha and Pamela hardly wore shoes to school, to go shod at the local market where all the other kids are barefoot – was totally unreasonable.

Then, there were bloody battles, with many casualties, like the three-day Gettysburg of 'Mom, The Home T-shirts Are Fine.' Upon a bombardment, the 'Confederates' commenced a brave bayonet attack and firmly established their right to go out in their home-only T-shirts with any type, size, and relative position of the holes. But over the battlefield of 'Mom, Can I Have A Tattoo?' the victorious 'Union' flag was flying, whilst the 'Confederates' retreated in panic, dropping their muskets, leaving behind their cannons, and barely picking up the wounded.

Unlike the actual Civil War, the overall battle score was going to the South. Patrick grew up and joined the 'Confederates.' His High Seas Fleet lost the main battle at 'Every Boy Must Have a Knife,' but maintained the naval blockade of 'Dear Parents, I Just Like My Bandana, OK?'

After his Dumpster 'cruise', even William was inclined to fight on the 'Confederates' side. In February, Mary hinted that doing the Loop with no shirt might not be entirely 'appropriate.' She believed the Salvation Way duties called for a full uniform, with the medal.

"It's a new world, Mom," William said. "Happiness equals what you have minus what you want. This means if you want nothing, you can be happy with anything. Forget your 'appropriate' and take it easy. Just-Adjust."

"Just-Adjust? Like our neighbors Levin? Stop repeating this nonsense!"

But William smiled and assured Mary the red collection bucket on his neck matched perfectly with the collection of scars on his bare torso.

Well, the 'Union' would lose eventually.

Mark imagined how he might abandon the North and join the forces with the winning South. He would allow his daughters to wear mens shirts, not buttoned, but knotted at the tummy, as per the latest fashion, and let Samantha have her tattoo. Why not? After all, his daughter was already fourteen, and now she became an independent breadwinner for the family. Hey, Mark was even willing to pay for her tattoo! Safer to get it from a well-established tattoo parlor than from a spec'list at the 'Fill!

Back to the upcoming 'I Wanna Work The 'Fill' battle, it was about two main points. They had the same heated conversation three years ago, when Mike decided to drop off.

The first point, working at the 'Fill was unsafe and unhealthy. Granted, Mark did not like all these chemicals (what Fred called them – phenols?) in the air. He preferred his daughter to have a line of work where she would not need to breathe through a corrugated pipe in her mouth. On the positive side, Frederick Stolz was a good neighbor and a qualified chemical engineer. He understood the hazards of his little business, and did not try to hide them. What about any other job? It might appear cleaner and safer, and farther from the damn landfill, but was it really that safe? Take the dioxin Rodrigo mentioned few hours ago. One could not see, or smell, or feel it, until too late. Or asbestos! Or radiation! Mark heard of munitions factories in the southern suburbs, where workers developed orange skin from trinitrotoluene: Sugar Land canary girls! No, considering all other options, Fred's gasoline plant was not a bad choice at all. Mark was OK with this himself, and he would convince Mary easily.

The second point: if Samantha worked at the gasoline plant permanently, her school would have to go. Instead, she might use an hour a day to read what was interesting to her or needed for her job, the same as Mike and Arnold did. It would not necessary mean her overall education to be any worse than after a proper school, probably just the opposite! Nevertheless, it meant the absence of the graduation papers, and made a University degree – impossible. For sure, Mary would not like the idea. To be frank, Mark himself did not like the idea at all. No rational decision here!

Back when Mark was in the high school, his parents constantly repeated: son, you must get a degree; only with University degrees people can make real careers. Admittedly, his Master of Science thesis landed Mark in the FBI. Now, after the Meltdown, job market changed. Landfill digging and farming were two most common occupations around this part of Houston. Some learned a trade and became mechanics, blacksmiths, tailors, or electronics repairman. Weapon factories in the northern suburbs paid well, but hired only young men, those who survived three mandatory years in the Army. None of these jobs needed a high-school diploma.

The only occupation in which the University degree could be beneficial, was a medical practice. But beneficial did not mean compulsory. Now, plenty of medical practitioners worked with no degrees, and even without high school diplomas. Mark thought about all the effort William put into studying Math, Chemistry, and Biology through the high school. His son took special courses in Latin and Human Anatomy! And for what? Becoming an amputee beggar? Mark winced, as from a toothache, and it returned him to the reality.

Oblivious to his guest's train of thoughts, the proud plant owner continued his technology show. By now, Frederick had half a page covered with formulas, and the reactor cross-section under them, with neat curved arrows showing temperature regimes. He looked at Mark's face, probably realized this hard science was too much for Mark's humanitarian education, and clapped the notebook shut. "Enough Chemical Engineering!"

Mark politely nodded. "I see, Samantha is doing well."

"Oh, as my grandpa said: Sehr Gut! Can't be any better. Just her second day on the job, but already knows her way around our bombs. Sam's titration is way neater than Mike's or Arne's." Frederick pointed to the row of assorted jerrycans at the base of reactor number five: "See? We drained almost fifty gallons! Sam's first batch!"

"Sam's? As usual, you are too kind, Fred. Samantha is not a wizard, but a mere wizard's apprentice! I am pretty sure you conjured all this gas by yourself."

"Even the best wizard cannot do without a good apprentice. My workers are enthusiastic, and Denny is an excellent asset as a foreman. But for the technology, – need constant supervision. The other day, Sam comes to me and says: I'm so sorry, Mister Stolz, but I think they forgot the catalyst in the number five. So I ask Denny: have you added the catalyst? And he says: oh! Why the heck did you seal the bomb then? If not for Sam's sharp eyes, Denny would run a reactor cycle for next to nothing. This is her batch, no questions asked!"

At this moment, Mark's phone rang. Mike told him that he and Arne had passed the medical and would be sent to the boot camp today. Frederick and Samantha could not leave the plant till much later in the afternoon, but unlike Mark they did not require an urgent wash either.

"OK, Fred," Mark said in a hurry, "I try to convince Mary. I mean, to let Samantha work here. Permanently."

"I will be more than pleased," Frederick replied, "we all like Sam. And about her school – no worries at all. For hard science and engineering, here she will learn more than in her class..."

Mark rushed with Jasmine to the landfill gates and used his FBI badge to let her back in without paying the customary five dollars to the guards. Then, Mark ran across the highway, obtained his bike (and a bewildered stare from the parking lot owner) and raced to the West Canal. Three hours later, he and Mary stood under rain in the little crowd of friends and relatives, waving goodbye to military motor-buses departing for San Antonio boot camps. The good part, Mary was so worried about Mike, she did not even mention Mark's ruined office clothes.

# Chapter 19

After his adventures at the 'Fill, Mark needed quiet time. He arrived to the Station at few minutes past seven, shut the glass door of his tiny office and started digging through his personal landfill – the paperwork. About two hundred unanswered e-mails – nothing of true importance, just the usual garbage.

He completed the scene investigation report. Typed into electronic forms, Amelia Khan: her full name, her date of birth, and so on, – was sent traveling over fiber-optics to an unbeknownst FBI server in Washington, DC. Not much left of the girl: a pile of fresh dirt at the cemetery and few kilobytes of data at the server. Mark's case number sixteen was now officially suspended and added to the fifteen in the Butcher pile. What new had they learned? Very little, Mark decided. They established the serial killer was a well-built man, about the size of Alex, and that he had a black balaclava and a small black backpack. Plus, not to be ignored, a first-witness reconfirmation that the killer had a pair of dark-color canvas sneakers, polka-dot work gloves, and a standard-issue Army knife. Better than nothing, but not enough, and by far.

Alex was of a perfectly average height: 5-9.5. If the killer had been of the same height, give or take an inch, around one quarter of adult men would be a perfect match. They were not even sure the killer was a male. Naturally, a female was far less likely, but they found no biological evidence. Thinking all the animal steroids, still widely available in Houston, a five-nine woman with well-developed muscles, dressed in a dark outfit, could pass for a man. Take Liz, the Mesa Drive Beat deputy. Give her a loose-fitting black jacket and a balaclava, who can tell she is a woman, especially in the night, from several hundred feet away?

Yet another possibility, Mark contemplated. What if the Butcher was not from Sheldon-Res? As an extreme, what if he lived about thirty miles from here: around Dairy Ashford on the west or Dutton Lake at the east? How would he travel thirty miles to make his kills? Must be by bicycle, what else? Cars and riding horses were far too obvious, the public motor-bus service had been in decline for the last two years, and omnibuses did not operate in the night. Thirty miles on a bike, with a couple of rest stops, about four or five hours. Was it far-fetched? If the killer lived in the downtown, or even farther west, he must be a trader, which traveled back and forth through their districts, bringing sea products from the Gulf ports to the in-land. This meant their killer had some version of a cargo bike and had to stay overnight. In his diary, Mark made a note to ask the beat deputies to check all the guarded parking lots and traders' guest-houses.

He needed to come up with innovative ideas for the investigation plan, or else the FBI experts in Washington would rip him and Ben an extra hole in the butt during the next teleconference. Or worse: send Mark to his early retirement. Sadly, the innovative ideas did not come easy. In the past twenty-two months they had tried more or less everything.

Mark turned his chair towards the map and stared at the color dots. He started putting these goddamn pins after the murder number six. The FBI experts in Washington insisted that eventually the pins would form a doughnut pattern. Presumably, the serial killer did not commit his crimes close to home. On-foot, he could reach a radius of ten, maximum fifteen miles, so the crime scene locations would indirectly point to perp's own home. One expert suggested a special computer program, which compared the travel times along each possible route to the crime scenes. Mark remembered Ben asking the expert how many more people need to die before the pattern emerged. The answer followed that the statistics algorithms worked reliably only for number of cases above twenty. Another expert pointed out the suggested program was excellent for analyzing movement of motor vehicles, and along paved roads. But in the modern Houston, people moved on-foot or on bicycles. Shortcut dirt paths were everywhere. According to the second expert, eyeballing the map was better than using pre-Meltdown software.

Now, after the case number sixteen, the pattern on the map was anything but the expected doughnut. The case dots peppered a ten-by-twenty mile area between the McCarty Road Landfill on the west and Muleshoe Lake on the east. To the north, one case was reported at the corner of Sam Houston and Lockwood. In the south, two victims were found at the former Texaco Country Club, half-way between Crosby and East Freeway. The only observable pattern was that the kills always happened in the woods, in-line with the killer's modus operandi.

Anyway, why not to try the female perp idea, as crazy as it sounded? Mark started a browser and typed the Armed Forces' Career Office database URL in the address field. After entering his e-mail for login, he struggled to recall the password. The access rights took him two full days of bureaucracy paperwork, but strangely enough, he used it just twice since, relying on the CSIs to do the searches. Last time, Frederick mentioned the Pentagon was now after the girls, did he? I must check, Mark decided, if my daughters got in here somehow, and if I should start worrying.

Because he had a read-only access, the interface was very simple. He clicked the Female checkbox under Gender, typed 'P*' in the surname field, and clicked Search button. Two seconds later, nineteen hits popped on the screen. Palmer, Panini, Parno, Peabody... 'Pendergrass' was not in the list. Thanks God, not yet. How many females had been registered? He deleted 'P*' in the form and clicked Search again. After a little delay, the server replied: "1,492 record(s) found." He expected more. Obviously, the mass-registration of female conscripts had not yet started, and the database contained only volunteers. Unlike in the North, the girls in Texas were not very keen to make career in the military forces.

The names had been neatly arranged in pages, one hundred names on each. He mindlessly scrolled the first page, and a familiar surname caught his eye.

Bowen, Aleisha S.

05/23/09, volunteer, US Navy, 08/26 – present, Active Duty.

Bowen, Wanda

02/17/03, volunteer, US Navy, 08/20 – 08/25, Reserve-USN.

He would probably have missed it, if not for the 'volunteer' and the 'US Navy' in the table. Kate Bowen, the new girlfriend of Deputy Kim, served in the US Navy as a volunteer, but was not listed in the database!

Intrigued, Mark clicked the Male checkbox. This time it took the server full two minutes to reply. "Sorry. In the current form, the search returned 338,521 result(s). This number is too large to be displayed. Please narrow your search by providing more details in the search form field(s)." Tom the CSI once said, this database only covered the eastern side of Houston, slightly over a million of total population, Mark recalled. We might try this. Mark cleared the Female checkbox, typed Pendergrass in the surname box and searched again. The server quickly responded: "3 record(s) found." Pendergrass was not a common surname, after all.

Pendergrass, Mark M.

09/10/82, registered, NA, NA – NA, Reserve-S.O.

Pendergrass, Michael D.

03/11/13, conscripted, US Infantry, 04/2030 – present, Active Duty.

Pendergrass, William M.

01/29/11, conscripted, USACE, 10/2028 – present, Active Duty.

Mark scratched his head. The first two records – as anticipated. Mike just passed his medical yesterday and was on his way to a boot camp. Naturally, AFCO had updated Mike's record. Mark had never served in the armed forces, but was listed in the 'special orders' reserve. In case of a global war, the FBI agents would be called to fill the ranks of Military Intelligence and Military Police. But the last record was wrong: William, being an amputee vet for over nine months, with his discharge papers and now even with his yet unpaid disability compensation, – was still listed as an active duty! The discovery was so significant, Mark could not sit still.

Tom, the resident database geek, was at his desk, typing a report. "Can I interrupt our busy CSIs?" Mark asked.

"Sure. Any service for the FBI! I am assigned to investigate bootleg gas! Shite! As if nobody knows all real gasoline in Houston is stolen from the Army..."

"Can you open the AFCO database for me?" Mark quickly explained the issue, and within seconds the CSI had the same result reproduced on the screen. "See: here. My son William is still listed as at active duty, but he has been a vet for over nine months."

"A stale record, nothing special. People often assume computers know everything instantly. In reality, somebody has to tell the database your William had been discharged."

"Back in August, William got his papers at the Dumpster... Sorry it's the Santa Lucia, a floating hospital. For sure, somebody had updated his status. Besides, he just got his disability compensation letter. So the computers must know, do they?"

"Yes, but that's the Joint Military database in the Pentagon. The local AFCO database is a different system on an entirely different server. The AFCOs' databases are decentralized, in case of the real, I mean – thermonuclear, war."

"And how does AFCO know somebody is discharged? Or killed in action?"

"They don't. For the Career Office, it's only important to keep track on those who may be called in. Once somebody returns from his last deployment, he reports to the local AFCO. It's a Federal Law: you must report to AFCO within a month of your arrival. No big hassle, – over the Internet. Just log in with your full name for the user name and your SSN for the password. But the webpage only works for the personnel listed in reserve."

"And why the disabled vets can't register online?"

"Before – they could. Ten years ago, they provided a special webpage, to add a medical report in PDF. But after a little while some smarty-pants figured out that PDF might be faked. So, you served for three years and then registered yourself as a disabled vet. Bang, and AFCO did not bother you anymore! So, AFCO decided the disabled had to register in-person: show your photo ID and your missing leg."

"Great! Imagine: somebody returned on crutches and must walk ten miles to update the stupid database."

"When they canceled the mandatory vets' registration, they justified it exactly this way. The real reason was different. It turned out at any given time there were cripples in front of each AFCO. A show of crutches and wheelchairs was detrimental for morale."

"Whose morale, the vets?"

"Who gives a damn about the cripples' morale? The morale of new draftees! I remember how I came to AFCO for my medical. There was a whole gang, six vets, and each – without a leg. Frankly, I was on the brink of deserting, even before the doctors... Anyway, eventually AFCO announced the vets could skip the registration."

"And so, the vets are still listed as at active duty?"

"Correct. Once a year, the local system administrator makes a list and sends to a sysadmin in the Pentagon. If somebody is discharged in reserve, but neglects to register, the local AFCO starts sending letters, makes phone calls, or asks us, the Police, to go and check the last known address."

"What happens if the Pentagon replies that a soldier is disabled or killed?"

"They're called 'purged records.' Nobody needs them anymore, so they're removed from the base."

"Got it," Mark said. The idea that his William firmly belonged in the 'purged records' category was somewhat disturbing. "Now, can you list all the females in the database?"

Tom obliged, and the list appeared on his computer screen. "Who are you after?"

"She's not in the list. Deputy Kim, in GRS, got a girlfriend. She was a volunteer in the Navy. You see, here, Bowen and Bowen, both are the Navy volunteers. The girlfriend's name is Katherine Bowen, so she must be in-between."

"Failed to register in AFCO. That's a criminal offense."

"Doesn't need to. Katy has no legs."

"No legs? Deputy has rather unusual taste for girlfriends!"

"Nothing as such: Kate is Kim's very first and very-only girlfriend. She is cool. Helped us on the Butcher case. Back to the DB, if what you have told me is right, she should appear, listed at active duty. The same as my William."

"Ah, she must be from a different area! Is she?"

"She is from Detroit, Mich."

"That's why she is not listed! The DB is decentralized, as I said. Miss Bowen is still in her home database – in Detroit."

"I thought so."

"Then, I don't understand why you're asking."

"Remember how we compiled a list people with the special forces' training?"

"Sure. Standard operational procedure. I took the local AFCO base and selected all discharged between 2024 and 2028. Slightly less than sixty thousand names... Oh shit!"

"Exactly! This morning, I just thought our perp may be a female and started checking the DB. But now I am thinking: we've included only the men listed in reserve. What if somebody left the service as a disabled vet, and did not register in AFCO? Those stale records! Or our man is a vet and has been, as you call it, – purged from the database."

"You're right, sir! A person may have two arms and two legs, but still medically unfit for the military service. Like having an internal injury: missing a kidney, or having a shrapnel fragment in the lung. Or infected with MDSV."

The HIV vaccination, introduced back in 2015, helped to control the nasty virus, but enthusiasm from the medical victory was short-lived. The new sexually-transmitted disease – Muscular Dystrophy Syndrome Virus, appeared out of nowhere few years ago. As deadly as AIDS, it had no vaccination and no cure. The drug-resistant TB was another scare, although in Texas it was still infrequent, unlike in the northern States.

The Government had no money for microbiology research grants. Hey, they hardly had enough resources to produce enough of the well-developed vaccines! The USA had been polio-free for good fifty years. Now the outbreak reports here and there followed in rapid succession. In their immediate neighborhood, two boys lived with paralyzed, twisted limbs – a grisly reminder of the major epidemic Houston experienced in 2024. Back then, Patrick and Pamela were not vaccinated! Mark and Mary spent that year in constant fear, and obtained the precious polio vaccine only after the main outbreak had ended. Not even sure if their kids had been infected, but just got lucky not progressing into a full-blown disease. Now, little Davy had been on the vaccination waiting list, and with no vaccine in sight.

Mark nodded. "Let's hope our serial killer is not contagious! We must repeat our last-year search, but include all the disabled we had missed. How fast can you do it, Tom?"

"By the official channels, – a month or two."

"Why so long?" Shit, Mark thought, I don't have a month!

"We must fire a request to our liaison officer in Washington. She will forward to her Pentagon contact..."

"Why can't you search the Pentagon database yourself? You have access rights, do you?"

"Yes, but I can only use a dick!"

"What?"

"DIQ. Direct Identification Query. You must supply the person's full name and his SSN. Both can be found on the standard military ID-tag. The database returns you a single record."

"What if you type wrong SSN or misspell the name?"

"No such person."

"What if you got fingerprints, but no name?"

"Oh, yes, these are called BIQ, or Biometric Identification Queries. I can type a fingerprint code, all these loops and deltas, and the DB will return me all the matching records. Dactyloscopy is an art, not a science! We seldom do such magic ourselves and trust this to the Identifications ladies, at the Travis Street HQ. To be complete, there are also BIQ queries for DNA codes and for iris scans. That's all."

"But you cannot search by a service status, can you?"

"Nope. These are called DLQ, Direct Logical Queries. To them, we have no access – for the national security reasons. In the military itself, many have DIQ access, but only a handful of people who have the DLQ level. See, with logical queries, you can easily figure out the size of the Army, where the people are deployed, and so on. A spy's heaven."

Mark sighed. "OK. Fire your request to Washington, and let's wait for two months. Better late than never."

Tom hesitated. "I think, I can do it faster. But... it's a hack."

"A hack?"

"Yes. With my DIQ rights, I can roll a pseudo-index. Something I invented between cutting corpses and tracing bootleg gas. From the local AFCO, I get a list of names and SSNs. Then, I feed it into my Python script. It goes name-by-name and extracts the corresponding records from the Pentagon DB. Exactly as a human would do, dick one record at the time. The Pentagon server imagines I sit here all night and type the names and the SSNs, like mad. In reality, I go to bed, and the software robot does all the typing for me. You can start it on Monday evening, and by Wednesday morning you have several thousand military records sitting in your local folder. At this point, I use another script: is reads each record and puts the information into MySQL database. So I mirror the Pentagon server content, even if it's not entirely legal."

"Neat. You are a mighty hacker, Tom. I wonder why the NSA is not after you yet. OK, OK, I'm not telling them!"

"After that, I use MySQL to perform my own searches. Look for the Special Ops, Navy SEALs, Paratrooper Courses, and such. The same as the Pentagon can do, but in few days instead of several weeks."

"Sounds promising!"

"I have to warn you upfront not to expect much. We already have a list of people with the special ops training. My new search will add two dozen disabled vets, that's all."

"Besides, you said it's not fully legal. Should you risk your badge for it?"

"I do it anyway. Out of my personal interest! First, I want to sharpen my hacking skills. Second, it's a welcome diversion from the bootleg gasoline case. The last but not least, I have a good excuse to visit our local AFCO: the purged records are not available online, so I must get them directly from the backup disks. Meanwhile, I can check if one sysadmin girl is as cute as sounds on the phone..."

"Good deal. Can we look into the last-year list?"

"Done," Tom clicked his mouse, opening the right file.

"How many are between five-eight and five-ten in height?"

Tom's fingers ran over his keyboard. "Three hundred and eighty-seven records. For the special ops, the distribution doesn't follow the general population bell curve. Those who are too short – cannot run..."

"...And those who are too tall – probably, cannot hide? OK, send me those records. I ask Ben to spare me two deputies. With a bit of luck, we can convince Washington we're doing something useful. But all my hopes – with your pseudo-index."

"Already on it, sir..."

Mark returned to his office disappointed and deflated. Three hundred and eighty-seven names they had checked once, plus twenty or so disabled vets Tom might locate eventually. Not even sure the Butcher was ever amongst them. A slim chance.

Should they listen to Washington's suggestion and call in volunteers, just to show the FBI brass something being done? Not very promising, and downright dangerous. How did Russian Bear put it another day? After having few drinks too many, the spectators climb to the stage. Enough volunteers will come, no doubts, but can they keep their heads cool? Inevitable mistakes. Not bad if vigilantes catch and beat a petty criminal, but they might kill someone – an innocent person. Even worse, the Butcher may realize the opportunity and volunteer himself! Patrolling the woods, learning what the Police knows, and preparing his new kills! Besides the managerial clowns, there are real experts in Washington. They've uniformly expressed the same opinion: whatever you do, volunteers will be out of control in a week, maximum two.

# Chapter 20

At home, the atmosphere was sadder still. On the way from the 'Fill, Samantha decided to stop at a cheap hairdresser and got her shoulder-length hear reduced to a half-inch boyish cut, as per the latest 'Fill fashion. Mary was outraged. Such a haircut was positively 'not appropriate' for their daughter. And even if it was, Samantha had to ask for permission first! The new 'domestic Civil War' battle was approaching fast. On the real – the United States – Civil War front, the situation became equally critical. Pamela did badly at her History test and got herself a huge 'D' with an exclamation mark and a nastygram from the teacher. She was now in the girl's room, hastily re-learning the key dates and the names of the generals.

Clarice, who had mastered the art of discharging such situations, today was not in her usual optimistic mood. Davy complained of a tummy-ache, so William and Clarice had to cut their Loop short and skipped the collection count at SWC. Now Clarice was upstairs, sitting with her sick son. William and Patrick quickly invented an excuse and both went upstairs too – manifestly, to finish off Patrick's school assignment, which was not due in three weeks. Usually, Patrick needed more persuasion, Mark observed.

With all the other 'Confederates' neutralized, Samantha had no choice, but to hold the battle alone. In accordance to the best Civil War tactics, her troops occupied the living room, digging trenches and commencing a rapid deterrent fire. The Commander-in-Chief sat in Mike's favorite chair and pretended to study Mike's gasoline processing notes. Samantha even held a pencil in her teeth, exactly as Mike liked to. Mary kept the strategic ground in the kitchen, bayonets attached, preparing a heavy artillery bombardment, followed by a frontal assault. Upon his arrival, Mark immediately found himself under 'friendly fire' from the kitchen fortifications: a harsh reprimand for the office clothes ruined at the 'Fill.

He took a plate with cold dinner and retreated to the living room. Tonight, Mark was the only person if not to avert the new 'Civil War' battle, then to reduce its collateral damage.

The TV was showing a weather forecast. A tropical storm in the Gulf had been promoted to a full-blown Category-2 hurricane. They already had a name for it: Arthur. If only the rains continue for a while! The Butcher never killed on a rainy night. "Looks like a big rain coming. A bit early for a hurricane season, what do you think, Samantha?"

"Now the weather is such a mess. Remember three years ago, when Mike started working at the 'Fill? We had four awesome storms in April..."

"I don't want to hear anymore: 'When Mike started working at the 'Fill'!" Mary fired her first salvo from the kitchen, "Mike, for your information, was going from 'C' to 'D.' With an occasional 'E' as a bonus! I'm sure his teachers threw a party after he left the school! You're a different story all together!"

Samantha rolled her eyes, showing Mark that Mom was totally unreasonable today.

"Cut Samantha some slack, honey," Mark replied. "We're talking weather. Hurricane Arthur has nothing to do with the 'Fill..."

His daughter nodded appreciation, turned ninety degrees in her chair, and threw her legs over the arm rest.

"How was your day?" Mark asked, digging into carrot escalope and peas.

"Wonderful!" Samantha replied in low voice, "in the morning, Mister Stolz and I went to sell our gas. Mister Stolz keeps calling it: 'Sam's first batch.' As if I made it all by myself! He even told shoppe owners: if any trouble with this gasoline, call Sam, my new Chief Technologist! Then, we fixed a leaking valve in bomb number four. Mister Stolz wanted to sell the valve for scrap and look for a new one, but I said: why don't we drill a bigger hole and cut a new thread? Mister Stolz had a second look and said: OK, Sam, give it a try. We can junk it any time. Real hard to drill, but Denny gave me a hand."

"And?"

"Fine! All fixed, and holding two hundred pounds! Mister Stolz was pleased. I'm afraid now he starts calling this bomb 'Sam's reactor'... Then, we drained number two and loaded number four. I ran all the tests by myself! After lunch, Mister Stolz sent me to Mesa Slum to pick up welding jobs he'd ordered."

"To Mike Hobson's Mechanics and Welding?"

"No, Chapman and Sons, at the south side. Mike Hobson is better at mechanical welds, if you need high tensile strength. But for pressure-tight parts – only to the Chapmans. They have a Tuboscope."

Wow. 'High tensile strength,' 'pressure-tight,' a 'Tuboscope.' She was always so good at technology. The influence of two older brothers. Samantha never played dolls, and her favorite toy was Thomas The Tank Engine, passed down to her by William and Michael along with their Lego kits.

"One of the sons, Dad..."

"Sons?"

"As in the Chapman and Sons. Zap Chapman is about my age. Although, I'm sure Zap is not his real name. Zap – like arc welding, right? He gave me this. Cute, isn't it?" From under her T-shirt, she extracted a pendant of sorts and handled it to Mark. On a length of a thin Nylon shoestring (Mark hated those: they always came untied at wrong moments), – a tiny ball bearing. With few little bolts and nuts welded to the sides, blackened, and partially polished, it became a steampunk mechanical flower.

"Very cute," Mark agreed, returning the necklace.

"Zap said, he makes those himself. While we waited for Mister Chapman, Zap told me all kinds of jokes. He is so funny! Unfortunately, the parts were ready, and I had to go."

"Unfortunately." For sure, not the last time his daughter met with the artistically-inclined boy welder. It explains Samantha's new hair style, Mark suddenly got it. You simply cannot wear this steampunk jewelry together with a plain-vanilla school haircut. "But please, Samantha, be careful with the boys at the 'Fill..."

"Ah, Dad. The boys at school are the same. No difference."

"But at school they don't give girls such mechanical flowers either." No big worries yet, Mark decided. His daughter is still telling him about boys. At some point in not-so-distant future, she will deny any boys' involvement, but every other evening – disappear in the woods till mid-night. And we will have a real reason to worry.

"That's why I like the 'Fill so much more," Samantha said. "At the 'Fill, everything is for real. And at school – just a make-believe. Mister Stolz – he knows everything! You ask him, – he picks a pencil: bang, bang, bang! And explains it. Easy! And in the school, you ask a teacher a real question, and the teacher repeats from the book. Over and over. Just by different words. I always felt our teachers have no clue what they're teaching about..."

Mark nodded. Close enough to be true. With their incomes lower than of a delivery boy, the teacher corps incorporated profound dead-woods, save for few teaching enthusiasts, but the latter were a rare exception.

"Dad, I'm really fed up with the school," Samantha continued. "Want to know how Pam blahed her History teacher today?"

"Enlighten me."

Samantha pressed her index finger to her lips, turned to check if Mary was not listening at the kitchen door, and whispered: "Pam said: your History-Schmistory, sir, is not even good for making moth-balls!"

Mark noted the very tip of Samantha's finger was black. Well, now her fingertips would be permanently black from the chemicals, the same as Mike's and Arnold's.

"Your sister is wrong!" Pamela was right in her assessment of Mr. Connely teaching, but Mark had to maintain a resemblance of parental authority, "Knowing a bit of History is useful."

"Yeah, right!" Samantha laughed and wiggled her bare feet in the air. Very well she knew what her Dad thought of school teachers in general and Mr. Connely in particular!

"OK. So you like your new job, do you? Are you getting along?" Mark changed the subject.

"Perfectly. Denny – he is our foreman..."

"That young man on scaffolding yesterday?"

"That's him! He's very hard-working and very serious. Exactly like Billy was... before the Army. Sorry, I didn't mean... Anyway. Denny looks after me, and helps with everything. The roughnecks are nice. Jack and Paul – these two are just like Mike. Practical jokes, and all. Lindy and Caroline. Lindy is Jack's older sister. Denny is in-love with her, up to his eyebrows, but he tries not to show it... But everybody can guess anyway... Mister Kingsley, our stoker. He looks after the boiler and buys fuel. Cherry Kingsley – his daughter, one year older than me. She is our three-in-one: an assistant stoker, a storekeeper, and a waterboy. Missis Prochnow. She is a part-time: only brings us lunch and brews coffee. Also, we have Mister Spalding, a night guard. He is a weirdo."

"Weirdo?"

"Nothing wrong, but he is kinda strange. When Mister Stolz introduced us, Mister Spalding mumbled: I'll be damned! A maggot for a Chief Technologist? But then, he somehow learned my surname. Comes to me and asks: Miss Pendergrass, are you Michael's sister? I said: yes. After that, he became the politeness itself. Samantha, how are you doing? Samantha, do you need anything? Never calls me 'Sam' or 'Sammy,' as all the others, only 'Samantha.' What a suck-up! But fine with me: he leaves in the morning and comes in the evening, so I'm quite safe from him through the day."

"But apart from this... weirdo Spalding – you are OK with everybody else?"

"Everything is awesome! Mister Spalding – he is also fine. No probs whatsoever! I wanna stay at Mister Stolz place. And I don't care what Mom says... Dad! Can you convince Mommy, please, please, please?"

"Very well. You want your dear Daddy to abandon the 'Union' and join the 'Confederates'?"

"As if you don't want to join us already, Dad..."

How did she guess I wanted to defect the North? The good news, he did not need to make a decision. His daughter had decided everything. A defector jumped on a horse and bolted across no man's land towards the 'Confederates' trenches, waving his hanky instead of a white flag. Mark brought his index finger to his lips and looked at the kitchen door.

"Are you still saying studying History has no use? That's the Civil War for you! Never know who is your friend, and who is your foe. Anyway, I'm on the 'Confederates' side, but Mom doesn't need to know yet, does she? Now, listen to our new plan!"

Samantha nodded.

"OK. First: is that 'nice lady' shop, next to your school, with the bead anklets and all the other things – still operating?"

"Yes! Now they're even bigger."

"Good! I need to pay them a visit tomorrow. Second! Promise me something, Samantha."

"OK."

"A real promise, not like yesterday."

"What – yesterday?"

"Yesterday, in the morning, you promised Mom to have your rubber boots on..."

"Oh-oh. Here come my boots again..."

"The damn mud was so-o-o soft. Or was it: squeaky-clean? Then, in the afternoon, I gave you my unofficial permission, and you promised to put your boots on while not at the plant."

"Yeah?"

"And today, only honestly. You went to Beaumont Flee Market and to Mesa Drive. Did you have your boots on?"

"Dad! We agreed with Mom. No school tires to the market."

"This particular agreement was about our local market here, but not for the flea market at Beaumont Highway."

"But Dad! The Beaumont market is..."

"Samantha, I've studied all your evasion tactics! Now you're going to explain me the Beaumont flea market is technically also a market. Just one question: did you have your boots on at the welders?"

"But Dad..."

"Never mind. You're a big girl now, and may go barefoot anyplace you want. No objections. But if you real-promise something, you must do as real-promised, agreed?"

"Agreed! A real-promise to do as real-promised!"

"Tomorrow. No sudden moves! Don't even think to do something barbaric, like your steampunk haircut. Tattoos are still not permitted! Or putting a ring in your nose, or inserting tea-plates in your ears! This is for your own good. Don't make our Mom pissed off over nothing, understand? The 'Fill fashions are tempting, just hold on for another month or two before following new fashion trends. Deal?"

"Deal, Dad."

"Excellent! Third! Tomorrow morning, explain Pamela and Patrick they'd better behave at school. Above and beyond expectations! Most crucial: don't blah any other teachers. We have enough trouble with Mister Connely. A couple of 'A' marks would be good too, but I don't insist."

"Consider it done, Commander."

"Fourth! Don't start the battle by yourself, understand? Sit quiet, do your evasion maneuvers, say 'yes, Mommy,' pretend you're helping Patrick or Pamela with their homework, whatever. Wait for me to give you artillery support."

"OK, I will wait, Dad. No shit. O-o-ops! I mean: it's a deal!"

'No shit'! Where did she learn these wonderful expressions? Likely, not during her three days at the 'Fill, but in her school. Yet, before the 'Fill, she hid her linguistic knowledge quite well.

Thus, the battle of 'I Wanna Be A Scav' had been deferred. The following morning a fragile peace had been maintained through the breakfast and the water run. To Mary's utter surprise, Samantha kissed her in the cheek and apologized for the inappropriate haircut. Then, the unthinkable happened. Without any power struggles, for her ride to the 'Fill, Samantha put her rubber boots on! Mary suspected this was just a show, but smiled nevertheless. Mark even did not need to suspect: the mud was again so-o-o soft today. He smiled later, when he observed how Samantha briefly stopped at the corner, took her boots off, and hung them under the seat of her trike. He hoped the stubborn girl would be clever to put the boots on prior to her home arrival, so a full illusion of 'appropriate' could be maintained.

Seconds after Mark walked into the Station, his phone rang with a dedicated Police tone.

"Mark Pendergrass."

"Deputy Kim here. GRS." Oh no, Mark thought. Not two bodies in the woods again. As the second week was passing since the previous kill, he became more and more nervous...

"Our Sherlock-on-Skate believes she's uncovered something of importance. I know it's crazy, but she insists."

Mark smiled. He was ready to listen to any idea, crazy or even stupid. All better than driving to investigate a new crime scene and then leave the FBI in a hurry.

"Jus' gimme the goddamn phone!" he heard from the speaker, then Kate's voice: "Mister Pendergrass, sorry. We are fighting here... I think I got something for you, only, Kim says it's garbage."

"Tell me."

"I was going over those old reports... There's particular incident I would like you to check. I entered it already. Do you have a pen?"

Mark confirmed, and Kate gave him the database ID. In seconds, Mark had the report open at his screen. What he saw made him jump in his chair.

"Kate, please inform Deputy Kim if he calls this 'garbage' once again, I'll ask Russian Bear to swing by your beat and give both deputies an extra training of self-defense. This is not garbage, big time."

"Kim, did you get that?" Kate's voice sounded victorious.

"Now, Kate, you have the victims' addresses and phones here. Do you know if they still can be reached?"

"Yes, Mark. I phoned them this morning. Linda Cherby, one of the victims. Now she calls herself Linda Espinoso, but the name change is not registered. Kinda married, to the second victim. Linda is at home. They moved to another address since the incident, but the cell phone is still the same."

"Kim, are you listening?"

"Yessir! We are on the speaker."

"Get on your bike. I will meet you at the corner of King and Garret. Now!"

Mark pushed his bike hard, barely touching the seat with his buttocks. Finally – something! Perhaps, this would give them the exact time reference, or an extra insight on the killer's identity. Or this time the serial killer made a mistake. Both victims survived, so the attack did not go by the Butcher's plan...

As they agreed, Kim was waiting with his bike at the intersection, but not alone. Kate waved to Mark from the bike's back rack.

"I couldn't just sit in the office. So exciting! My first police investigation!"

"Kate, it's a formal interview. I'm afraid, civilians are not allowed."

"I thought it's OK, sir," Kim said. "Kate is practically a Police employee now. The papers are not through yet, but she's this close." He demonstrated with his fingers that Kate was two inches away from being in the Police officially.

"Really?" Mark did not expect it so fast. Only yesterday morning he had a short talk with Ben, hinting that a document clerk position must be created in the GRS Beat. The Station Chief nodded and promised to make few calls, not too optimistic about success.

"Last afternoon, I suddenly receive a call from the Downtown HR. They ask for Kate's CV. But it's just a formality, they said. They had her military record already, from the Navy. Half an hour later, they sent me an application form for her to fill. She is hired!"

"Wow! That's what I call fast! Did they mention the pay?"

"Yep. Two hundred and ten, pre-tax," Kate smiled.

"Two hundred and ten a day? Not bad."

"No, Mark. This is per week. Because it's a part-time position. I'm not supposed to work for more than twenty hours each week."

"Cheap scoundrels! The document clerk's salary is four times that." The extra-low pay explained the HR quickness. They received an objective this year to reduce the average rate. In case of a legless vet, all the negotiation leverage was on their side. The goddamn Social Optimum once again, Mark observed.

"A half-time multiplied by a half-girl... Exactly one-fourth. No complains. With twenty hours per week, nothing prevents me from taking my red bucket to the Loop, after all."

"You know what, Kate? If your discovery helps the FBI, you can ask Sheriff's Office to hire you full-time and double your pay."

# Chapter 21

Kim led the way towards the heart of his slum. Soon they had to dismount the bikes and push them along the muddy footpaths. "Here," Kim pointed to a clumsy shack constructed from old furniture and car tires. He knocked on the resemblance of the entrance door. "Missis Espinoso? This is Police..."

The door opened, and a heavily pregnant teenage girl appeared in the frame. With all his effort, Mark could not call her a woman, – by the looks, she was between fourteen and sixteen. This pregnancy was obviously not her first – she held a naked toddler girl in her arms. Babies makin' babies! Perhaps, the locally made rag and wooden dolls were not as good as the factory-produced plastic infants of the pre-Meltdown time.

"Good morning. Missis Linda Espinoso?" Kim asked.

"Sure thing. Espinoso, who else?"

"May we come in?"

"Oh... Sure thing. You're Police. Only – sorry, it's, like, messy..." Mark mentioned how the girl's eyes trimmed below Kate's truncated body, and how the girl pretended she was not even looking.

Kate put her elbow over the bike seat, slid from the rack, and reached the ground. Confidently smacking mud with her blocks, she crawled towards the door and swung her body inside. Kim and Mark followed. A king-size bed, with a dirty blanket and equally soiled pillows, occupied almost all the room. It did not help that the shack was clattered with clothes, baby's bottles, and packs of recycled paper. Mark, as the most senior of the three guests, was given the only stool while Kim and Mrs. Espinoso sat on the bed. Kate opted not to add more dirt to the blanket with her muddy shorts and remained at the filthy linoleum floor.

"I called you this morning, Mrs. Espinoso," Kate started after the introductions. "The case two years ago. You reported an attempted robbery..."

"Sure thing, years ago! But we weren't robbed. The man ran away. There was no nothing."

"I've checked the Police report, and I believe you can help the FBI with one very difficult case," Mark insisted. "Any extra details you can recall..."

"Sure thing, any details. No probs, sir. I remember it like now, Mister Per... Pendigus."

"Can you tell us the entire story, from the beginning? I will ask questions if something not clear."

"Sure thing, entire story. So we were in the woods, having fun. We're dating back then... 'bout half a year. Pedro was just back from the Army. My Pa said: no way! He's twenty-two, and you're thirteen! And I'm: take a hike, Dad! All my friends sleep with boys already! I'm no stupid... Never mind. So we had to... do it in the woods. We had a nice place. Can't see from the road, sure thing..."

She must be exactly fifteen now, Mark calculated. And having her second baby. How wonderful.

"I have a map," Kim played with his phone. "Here. Only this sat photo is too old. Now the place has no power line: strips cut the masts six years ago."

The girl looked at the screen and nodded. "Sure thing. But I'm no good with maps... That night everything was like usual. I told Ma, I go with girls. Tailor shop girls... I worked a tailor shop – before my first baby..."

"Do you remember the date?"

"Sure thing, the date. April. Or March?"

"The report says: eleven-thirty PM, April the sixteenth, 2028," Kate reminded from the floor. "Did you go to the Beat the same day?"

"Sure thing, the same day. When else?" The pregnant girl glanced at the Kate's wooden blocks and pretended she did not look.

Right. Just over two years ago, and two months before their first reported case. "Please continue," Mark said.

"So me and Pedro were in the woods. The usual: kissing, chatting, having little fun. Getting ready to... you know... And that man: bang! Jumps out from the bush! Sure thing, he had a knife!"

"The knife. Was it in his right hand or left hand?"

"Sure thing, the knife in his hand. Where else? His right hand, as normal."

"What kind of knife?"

"A knife like a knife. Everybody have the same." She rose from the bed and made two heavy steps towards a tiny dinner table at the window. "Sure thing. This kind of knife." She held a standard-issue Army knife, battered and thin from prolonged use, but still recognizable.

"That man. How did he look like? Tall, short? Do you remember his face?"

"Sure thing. Average. Five-eight, yeah. Five-eight. Or five-nine? But, like, pumping weights. Big arms."

"How was he dressed?"

"A tank top. Black. Sure thing, pants... Military pants, khaki, but not standard. Not from the Army uniform. The standard pants – I know 'em. We used to modify uniforms, – in the tailor shop."

"The face, do you remember the man's face?"

"Sure thing, the face! I'm no stupid. A normal face. A bit thin. Black hair."

"Was he White? Black? Asian?"

"Sure thing, White. As I said: a normal face. Or a Latino. But – the type almost like White."

"What about his nose? Lips? Eye color, by chance? Beard, mustache?"

"Sure thing, he had a nose! Sorry sir. I don't remember no nose. I looked at the knife! No eye color – too dark. But he didn't have no beard. No beard, and no mustache."

"What was the man's age, by your guess?"

"Sure thing, he was old."

"Old?"

"Old! But not as old as you, Mister Pendigus..."

Thanks, Mark thought. Indeed, for this teenage mom, any man past her husband's age resided in the 'old' category. He pointed to Kim and Kate. "Would you say, the man was about Deputy Kim's age or Miss Bowen's age?"

The girl looked down, again carefully avoiding Kate's missing legs.

"Older! Older than Deputy. Looked thirty. Sure thing, thirty. Or thirty-five."

"OK, anything else unusual about the man?"

"Sure thing, unusual! He had Mickey's gloves!" She pointed at the wall above the bed, where cheap plastic Mickey Mouse clock was twenty minutes behind the time.

"White gloves?" Mark asked.

"Sure thing. White gloves with black dots."

"What about his feet? Was he in sandals or in boots?"

"Sure thing. But not sandals. Shoes. Sporty shoes, light."

"Light shoes? Do you mean the color? Or weight?"

"Color, sir. What else? But they're no heavy shoes either. Sporty shoes, sure thing."

"OK. So what happened next?"

"Sure thing, Pedro was a Marine! So he: bang! Jumped to his feet! And that man... He also: bang! And jumped... To our left. And ran to the bush! Pedro, like: I catch motherfucker! And I: ya what? Bananas? No way! I didn't want to stay alone in the woods. I'm no stupid!"

"How far was the man, when Pedro jumped?"

"Ten feet. Sure thing. Ten, twelve feet."

"And next?"

"Sure thing, the man ran away. I said: Pedro, let's go tell the Beat! The man is dangerous, may kill somebody. Pedro like: dangerous? If this asshole comes back I take his own knife and shuffle into his ass! And I: what are you, freaking Batman on TV? Let's have a quicky, and then go tell Police, that's their freaking job. Pedro said: OK, so we had... sex, I mean. On the way home, we went to the Beat, and Deputy wrote his report..."

"I remember writing this down," Kim admitted. "But frankly, before today, I saw absolutely no link between this attempted robbery and your investigation, Mister Pendergrass. Perhaps, only the knife, but everybody has the same."

"Pedro. Is he now your husband?" Mark asked Linda.

"Sure thing, my husband. We went to church!"

"Is Pedro strong? Well-built?" What confession would agree to do a ceremony for a thirteen-year-old? Did priests ask the age? Well, all the indications hinted the teen bride arrived to the church with a nine-month belly. The groom may now kiss the bride. And the bride may now lie down and deliver.

"Sure thing, Mister Pendigus! My Pedro is very strong. Can bench-press three hundred pounds! The man with the knife, like: no freaking way! Besides, 'bout the man..."

"Yes?"

"He was limping. To his right. Nope, sorry. That's – our right. To his left! Sure thing, sir: to his left side!"

After clarifying minor details and filling the paperwork, they targeted out. Kim crouched down, Kate put one arm over his shoulders, and Deputy lifted his girlfriend onto the bike. Obviously, they had done this trick few times already.

"May I ask a personal question, Missis Espinoso?" Kate smiled to the girl who was standing in the door and waiting for them to depart. "You keep looking at my missing legs. Are you scared or something?"

The pregnant teen hesitated. "...Oh, how to say it... Sure thing, ma'am, you're a vet. I mean: no legs, and that's not your fault... But I'm expecting a baby, so..."

"So what?"

"So they say at the 'Fill! If I look at you with no legs... My baby will come out as a maggot..."

"What?"

"You know: a maggot! No arms and no legs! Or twisted, with a melon-head! Sure thing, ma'am, I don't want a baby like this! At the 'Fill, it happens all the time. Somebody looks at a vet with no legs: bang! A maggot comes out!"

Dioxin. Or some other wonder chemical. We're sailing straight into the Dark Ages. One more generation, and we attribute infectious diseases to bad spirits and not to our dirty water and poor vaccine availability. Or start catching witches for spoiling milk and burn them at the stake...

"OK, what are you making of this?" Mark asked Kim and Kate as they reached the paved road.

"I am not sure," Kim replied, "at first, I thought this was just a coincidence. No idea, honestly."

"I believe this was the Butcher, beyond doubts," Kate pulled out her tobacco box. "OK, the Army knife means nothing by itself, but considering the sporty shoes and the gloves... Want to share a To-Ma-Gochi, Kim?"

"Kate, you keep forgetting we're on-duty! Linda Espinoso did not tell us anything specific about the shoes and the gloves. All we know is that the shoes were sporty and the gloves were Mickey Mouse."

"I have an official permit for my phantom pain medicine: being a legless vet comes with its perks! How do you imagine a pair of sporty shoes? Not sandals, not 'flops, not even army boots. Specifically: sporty shoes?"

"From the academic standpoint, 'sporty shoes' can mean anything. Joggers. Football boots. Sporty flip-flops. Even sporty high boots: horse-riding boots, for example."

"Sporty flip-flops! How wonderful! What do you understand in sporty shoes, Mister Academic?"

"And what do you, like, understand in sporty shoes?"

"'Like!' Comparing to Houston folks, I'm a goddamn expert! In the North, we know few things about shoes. You can't go barefoot in Detroit, especially in the winter! I walked in sporty shoes all my life!"

"Not anymore! Now you're Kate-on-Skate, with wood chunks instead of your sporty shoes!" At this point, Kim received a playful, but heavy slap on his back.

"Stop fighting, guys!" Mark interrupted their 'academic' dispute, "I agree with Kate. This may very well be our man. First, consider the height. Espinoso said: five-eight or five-nine. OK, we have one more eyewitness who tells us the perpetrator was five-nine. Besides, we have those Indomerican lovers who saw a suspicious man in the woods. They also told us the man was about five-nine. A mere coincidence? Possible, but I hope for the best. Second, now we have a proof the man in question had special ops training."

"Why?" Kim and Kate asked simultaneously.

"He appeared as if from nowhere, ten or twelve feet from the potential victims. Was quiet and determined to attack, with a knife in his hand. Observe the sequence of events. Pedro suddenly jumps up, and our perpetrator..."

"The man steps to their left side."

"To the left side! An average Joe would either boldly continue into the attack or hesitate and step back. That is how our basic instincts work. Stepping to the left of the opponent – that's what they teach in martial arts. So either our perp was a Karate enthusiast during his primary school, or he had been in the special ops. My vote is for the latter."

"Still, how do we know it wasn't a common robbery?" Kim asked.

"We don't. But here is the third reason: an average robber seldom wants to kill his victims. Bad for the business, especially if you eventually get caught. What if you're captured by local vigilantes, and not the Police? For a murder – you end up hanged on the spot! So your typical robber comes, shows his knife, and communicates his intentions. 'Gimme your wallet!' The man, who attacked the Espinosos in the woods, – was determined to kill. No talking, no intimidation. He even had no mask! If you plan to kill your victim anyhow, why hide your face?"

"But your other witness saw the Butcher in a ski mask. Did you say: a black balaclava?" Kim asked.

"He may have learned his lesson from the first attempt. In case of a failure, minimize chances of being recognized. Also conceivable, he thought that the open face gave him away in the darkness and spoiled his attack."

"If he was in the special ops, he would put a face paint," Kate said. "On our Piranha, we beached Mil-Int many times. I never saw them using balaclavas..."

"Our perp knows better. The camo paint is superior to a mask, but only for the military ops. In the city, you don't want to walk from the crime scene with your face painted. And a black balaclava is ideal. You pull it off and stick it in your pocket. The only thing that does not match, is exactly what you two have been fighting about: the 'sporty shoes'! Linda said the shoes were light color. But the other witnesses said – either black or khaki. Perhaps, the killer changed his shoes – less visible in the night."

"Or Linda Espinoso remembered the opposite way around," Kate said, making another puff from her medicinal cigarette. "The girl was so focused on the knife, she hardly remembered anything at all. Besides, she's not exceptionally bright. I had my share of 'sure things' for a full week! I'm thinking: what if Kim can go and talk to Pedro Espinoso in the evening? Only, this time – I won't go. If Linda pups a baby with no legs, she will blame it on me, LOL!"

Kim giggled. "Too late, Katy-Skaty! Too late. You've been there, stomping around with your wooden blocks. Now, whatever happens, they will blame it on us. Imagine this: hey, Linda, why do you have a maggot for a baby? Sure thing! Our Beat Deputy: bang! Brought a legless girl on his bike! Sure thing, I just looked at her once!"

"One more 'sure thing,' and you can cut your balls off! You won't need them for the rest of your short, miserable life! But besides all the jokes, you must visit the Espinosos in the evening. Pedro is technically a witness. In the same right as Linda."

"Agreed, but don't hold your breath. I remember Pedro from their Beat visit. To her dear husband, Linda is like Einstein! Sure thing... Ouch!" Kate delivered another slap on Kim's back, this time even stronger.

"Enjoyed?"

"Sorry, Skaty, I couldn't resist... The only three phrases Pedro mastered through his entire life: 'Yes, sir.' 'No, sir.' 'What, sir?' At the Beat, Linda did all the talking, and her boyfriend was only nodding. Sure thing... Not at the kidneys, sweety, please... You have such a heavy hand. Pumped muscles on your bloody skate..."

"Kim, what did you do after they reported the assault?" Mark asked.

"What could I do? The robber appeared at something past nine, but the Espinosos reported the incident at eleven-thirty. In two hours, the perp could be ten miles away! I cycled to the scene, looked around. My flashlight gave up in less than ten minutes. Came again, after the sunrise: nothing. Besides, nobody was killed, nobody injured, nothing taken. So heck with it: we had a lot of other things to do. I put the report into a folder and asked Tan to do a cautionary talk with the known offenders..."

Upon his return to the Station, Mark raced to his little office and opened the spreadsheet with three hundred and eighty-seven names. OK, special ops guys, who of you can fit our profile? The people in this list had been filtered by height. Now Mark wanted to select all who could plausibly pass for 'White or white Latino' definition. First, he tried to filter the records by the complexion, but quickly abandoned the idea. Instead, he began opening each file in the PDF reader and sorting candidates by their photos and age at the same time. To be on the safe side, he included everybody from twenty-five to forty. The information from the teenage mom was not that robust. In one hour, Mark flipped through one hundred records and had thirty-four hits. To make a short break, he went to check the CSI bullpen.

"How was your sysadmin girl?" Mark asked.

Tom was doing his programming magic. "OK, I guess."

"An avid player! Unfortunately to Tom, she bats for another team," Natalie giggled from her cubicle.

"Well, yes, my AFCO contact is a Lesbian, and bravely admits it..."

"You'd better follow up on your neighbor who shot the video for us," Natalie said, "A much better choice, if you ask me. Unlike some stupid database jockey, a scavenger is a real job! Alice is smart and cute. Follows the fashion! I'm so jealous at her tattoo, although she should be more selective about her earrings. But the latter is easy to fix. Can she cook?"

"Never mind." Tom nodded, probably considering if to proceed with the fashion-obsessed scav. "I got all the purged records! Just need to sort them and start my script. Unfortunately, the initial list is quite long: I need to separate twenty-two thousand dead from thirty-seven thousand disabled."

"Did you say: twenty-two thousand dead?"

"Yep. In our AFCO alone, they had almost sixteen hundred KIA on the last DB purge. As for the disabled, I expected to see much lower number too. Now it looks like two point six percent of the entire population are vets! I am afraid we are double-counting something..."

"There is no double-count, Tom. Last time I talked with Salvation Way, they figured about the same: two point five percent, or one out of forty people..."

"Strangely enough, there is no such thing on the news. Not even on the Internet. As if the vets don't exist," Natalie said.

"That's all our Government can do. They just smile and pretend it's absolutely normal... Anyhow, out of these thirty-seven thousand vets, how many are between twenty-five and forty years of age?"

"Are you still guessing the Butcher's age or there is new data?" Tom asked.

"New data. Remember I mentioned Kate Bowen yesterday?"

"Deputy Kim's new girlfriend? With no legs?"

"Sure thing..." Bloody teenage mom, Mark smiled, now this 'sure thing' was going to pop up everywhere! "Kate Bowen, also known as Sherlock-on-Skate, the rising star of Harris County Police. She helped us again! In the Beat office they had a report of an attempted robbery two years ago. Never entered into the database, and remained on paper... I believe we have our case number zero: the first time the Butcher went to the woods and tried to kill a love-making couple; fortunately, he failed. What we learned today: our man is a Caucasian, or a fair-skinned Latino, his age is between twenty-five and thirty-five. OK, make it forty, – just in case."

"Sherlock-on-Skate? Cool. Sorting by age is easy." Tom punched few buttons. "It's twenty-one thousand records. Plus change."

"OK, now get the discharged between January 2024 and March 2028, and the height between five-eight and five-ten."

Tom modified the query again. "Less than three thousand hits! Excellent! For those, I can extract records by midnight. Tomorrow morning, you will have a full list."

Two minutes later, Mark was back to his desk, sorting the remainder of the special ops records. This was going to work, after all! He felt like a fisherman: his big tuna not yet out of the water, but already firmly on the hook.

Two more hours of work, and he had ninety-two photos, separated from the PDF and ready to be shown. To keep the investigation objective, he did not attach any names or other details, just the numbers. Mark liked that the file count was less than a hundred. Different people have different attention span. In some, the brain shuts down after ten photos, and all the photographs past the first dozen look identically familiar or unfamiliar. Mark wished Pedro's visual memory was better than his verbal abilities. Zipping the photos and sending them to Deputy Kim was a matter of seconds.

Mark's excitement did not wear off till the very evening. Even after Kim sent an SMS, informing the Espinoso had flipped through all ninety-two photos and could not identify the perp, Mark did not feel disappointed. A typical attention span problem. They would shuffle the photos and try again tomorrow. Tom would generate more photos from the vets' records. The CSIs could sit with the witnesses to do a computerized face sketch, and then compare the facial features with the service file photographs.

The only problem with the Pentagon photos, they depicted young men, perfectly shaved, with regulation haircuts, and in dress uniforms. Add few years of age, an unkempt hair, and unshaven cheeks – and you get a completely different look. 'Old! But not as old as you, Mister Pendigus,' he smiled.

Even better if we doctor the photographs, Mark decided. Natalie was very fast and proficient with photo editing. She could add facial hair and change the uniforms into a black tank top, exactly as Linda Espinoso described.

Hello, tuna! Don't get off the hook!

# Chapter 22

From the Station, Mark went straight to the 'nice lady' near the school. Now the former garage looked a proper shop, with impressive selection of anklets and other bare necessities of hippie life: from bandanas and sunglasses to handicraft tobacco boxes, cigarette paper, and Grass. Two schoolgirls, between Samantha's and Pamela's age, envied a glass display with bead bracelets.

The shop attendant, a girl of about twelve, spotted Mark's bike, jumped to the door and yelled into the house: "Pa? There is a plainclothes dude! With a Police bike!"

The schoolgirls gave Mark a scared look. Twenty seconds later, 'Pa' appeared in the garage. He had John Lennon's long hair, complete with a beaded hairband and round glasses. A green tank top read: Say NO to Synthetic Drugs. Chemicals Kill You and Your Planet.

"Are you after me, officer?" the man asked, "I told your guys at the Beat: we are a responsible business. Aren't doing nothing illegal."

Mark observed that at least the official part of the 'business' was done responsibly. An announcement on the garage wall informed 'dear customers' that no smoking implements would be sold to any person under fourteen, no exceptions, thank you, end of the story, have a nice day.

"Relax. I'm in the 'dear customers' category."

'Lennon' gave a one hundred percent Beatles' smile. "Sorry, dude. Overreacted! Nowadays, you never know what to expect." He extended his hand for a handshake, but stopped halfway and apologetically demonstrated Mark his fingers, covered with reddish dust: he held a half-polished smoking pipe and a piece of sandpaper. "What do you smoke: Tobacco, Grass, or Blend?"

"Oh, I don't smoke. Fortunately or unfortunately... Just need to buy presents." Mark pointed to the bracelet displays.

"Cool, man. Kiri will give you professional advice. That's not my part of the shop. Now, if you excuse me, I need to finish this pipe today. 'Dear customers' can't wait."

Mark smiled and nodded, and 'Lennon' disappeared into the house. The back of his tank top read: SMOKE NATURAL. Good for the environment. Fun for you.

"What would you like, sir?" The teenager shop assistant asked.

"Do you still sell barefoot sandals?"

"You mean: kama'a-ole? Like this?" She lifted one foot off the ground, showing Mark her own fancy footwear.

"Right! I need four pairs, please."

The schoolgirls gave him another scared look. Now they think I'm a fetishist, Mark decided.

The purchase went fine, all the same. Kiri was an expert in neo-hippie fashion. The schoolgirls soon joined in, offering the second, and the third, and who-can-count-them-now opinions. Based on the girl's advices, Mark selected the sandals. He picked a light-green-with-burnt-brown pair for Pamela ("they're approved with the school uniform, sir!") A yellow-and-orange pair, with smiley-face beads perfectly fitted for Clarice ("these are for the optimistic moods!") For Samantha, Mark needed no advice whatsoever: the design incorporated blackened and partially polished tiny ball bearings, a perfect match to the steampunk flower pendant.

Finally, Mark decided on one luxurious black-with-gold pair for Mary. Kiri sensed they were talking the main present of the day, so an up-sale happened immediately. Mark ended up with not only the sandals, but also a matching bead bracelet and necklace ("These crystals in the middle are real Swarovski! Very rare! Swarovski you can find only at the 'Fill, no other place, sir!")

The service was impeccable, as in a high-fashion store before the Meltdown. An inquiry was made about the sizes; good I wrote them down, Mark thought. The sandals had been adjusted to match the intended owners. The presents were packed in jewelry boxes made from old glossy magazines. Mark was explained the prices were 'fixed,' and given a total price tag: six thousand dollars. Upon Mark's request, the John-Lennon 'Pa' was summoned, and gave Mark a generous discount. The entire lot went for forty-five hundred. Samantha was right: very practical. For the price of one pair of ugly school sandals, he purchased fancy shoes for the entire family!

From the hippie shop, Mark cycled to the local market and bought a family-size apple pie from the bakery. With pretty brown crust, and a hint of custard sugar on top, exactly as Mary liked it. The munitions for his 'Civil War' battle had been obtained.

Back home, he found William and David-senior sitting at the front deck.

"Heavy guns arrived! Just in time for action," William announced, turning his face to the characteristic thump of Mark's bike upon the wooden railings.

"Don't tell me the battle has started," Mark was concerned that Samantha did not listen, despite her real-promise yesterday.

"All quiet yet. The troops are still munching dinner," William said. "But: getting ready. Today, gran' David and I are for the United Nations."

David-senior pulled the pipe from his mouth and nodded.

"Where is Clarice?" Mark asked, kicking his shoes off at the entrance door.

"Upstairs. Davy developed a little fever," William said.

"Should we bring Davy to the doctor?" Nice if we can skip the confrontation today. Without Clarice, their specialist peacekeeper, the battle might get too personal. David-senior was useless in the peacekeeping role, and William, if compared to Clarice, was an amateur. Besides, recently he started playing on the 'Confederates' side far too often, and the peacekeepers were not supposed to take sides, were they?

"Rissy says: what's the point? The doctor will advise all the same: Aspirin, more water, and stay in bed, and she's doing all this already."

"Did you skip the Loop today?"

"I didn't. Went by myself! Sooner or later, I must learn to use my twenty-by-twenty vision, do I? Jack-the-Rapper was giving a show at the market, so I joined his support team. Mister Todd can call it spot-holding all he wants, but I don't give a damn. Jack renamed one song after me: Billy, Who Made Three Out of Each Five. Spot on."

Mark went inside. On the faces of Samantha, Pamela, and Patrick, he saw the determined readiness of seasoned 'Confederate' troops. The infantry was lining up, with the drumbeat and sergeants' whistles, loading their muskets! Mary sat with her cell phone, surfing the Net and getting ready to whack Samantha's brilliant ideas with a parental veto. She suspected Mark was now at the 'Confederates' side, but did not expect a surprise flank attack from her former ally.

Mark placed the apple pie on the dinner table. "Honey, how about having tea?"

"You're bribing me, so I let Samantha to become a landfill scavenger. Am I right?"

"Yes!" Mark admitted. The 'Confederates' held their breath.

"Won't work! I will never fall for a trivial apple pie. Despite it's my favorite."

"That's a pity, but the pie we must eat anyhow. The bakery doesn't give refunds. But of course, if you don't like the jewelry, I can return it tomorrow." Mark jubilantly placed the box in front of Mary.

Mary lifted the lid and poked inside as if the box was made not of the National Geographic cover page, but of red leather. With many carats of gold and diamonds inside, and with a price tag of $4500 in real pre-Meltdown dollars.

When did I give her real jewelry? Last time it was... well, 2013, our five-year anniversary. The present for 2018 was planned, but never happened. After the Meltdown, gold somehow did not make into our shopping lists! And now... All the jewelry Mark could afford for his wife: these cheap glass beads, but with exceptionally rare real Swarovski crystals, obtained only from the 'Fill.

"Beautiful!" Mary put the bracelet on and lifted her hand admiring the black and golden beads and little rainbows in the crystal. She pulled the 'barefoot sandals' from the box, and her lips twitched a little. "How inappropriate! What do you call these? Kameole?"

"Kama'a-ole, Mom. You need to make a double 'a'!" Pamela said. The next second, she and Samantha got to the floor, fitting the fancy sandals over Mom's ankles.

Mary tapped her bare toes. "At least, they're a perfect fit, darling."

"I still can guess your size!" Mark said.

"They are... awesome! I love them. Thank you, darling." She wrapped her arms around Mark's neck and gave a long-long kiss.

To make the attack's success permanent, Mark was quick to distribute the other jewelry. The rest of the evening passed peacefully. Without much struggle, Mary allowed Samantha to stay at the gasoline plant, but only through the summer. Everybody nodded: it was the same with Mike three years ago, and he ended up working at the 'Fill permanently.

Patrick made an opportunistic attempt to send his cavalry after the retreating 'Union' troops. "Every boy must have a knife," the intrepid ten-year-old 'Confederates' commander started to explain, but the UN Peacekeepers went into action. The horsemen suddenly stumbled upon the Blue Helmets' personnel carriers and faced William's machine guns. The raid was aborted and immediately forgotten.

At the end, Samantha almost spoiled the bloodless victory by revealing her plans to walk around the gasoline plant in those new kama'a-ole tomorrow. Prepared for this, Mark reacted at once: "Samantha, your barefoot sandals are not for working at the 'Fill. Remember, what Mister Stolz said? You must have PPE for each task in hand."

Samantha realized her blooper and replied, "oh, sure! I meant: I just take the kama'a-ole with me, and show to the girls. Tomorrow morning, I put my boots on! That's a real-promise, Dad: going to the 'Fill with no shoes is not appropriate."

She said it just right: going to the 'Fill, Mark smiled. Tomorrow morning, for a good cause of keeping our Mommy happy, Samantha would put her boots on and let her anti-sissy toes suffer for whole two hundred yards, all the way to the nearest corner. Mary in turn would pretend she believes the show, and her daughter is not roaming the 'Fill in bare feet.

Later on, already in bed, Mary admitted the presents were a nice touch, but her decision to let Samantha leave the school was more rational than Mark thought.

"I went to the school today to meet Mister Connely," she explained, "I can tell you, I wasn't impressed. He's a total idiot! First I learned that not only Pam got a 'D,' but about half of her class. Still, we must be proud: our daughter was the only one who got not just a simple stupid 'D,' but an advanced, glorious 'D' with an exclamation mark!"

"Was the test too difficult?"

"Yes and no. It was all about dates. On the sixteenth of June, Colonel such and such, with a half-battalion of infantry and one cannon, goes to such and such town, and stays for two days. Then, on the eighteenth, he marches up the state, to village such-and-such. And so on. All the little facts the idiot himself didn't know one year ago, but dug recently from a five hundred page monograph. All irrelevant: nothing about the reasons or strategy, nothing about politics, economy, or weapons. One big nothing! He teaches not History, but the Nineteenth Century calendar!"

"Our Pamela is not the type who can keep her mouth shut," Mark said. A couple more visits like this, and Mary might object her other kids going to school altogether!

"Kids must be so-o-o bored! Well, all the others in the class diligently tried to get the dates right. According to Mister Connely, one girl even got an 'A.' I asked if she remembered all the dates. And he said: only forty-five percent, but it's an excellent result. An excellent result, my ass!"

"And what had Pamela done to deserve the exclamation mark to her 'D'?"

"She remembered few dates, but didn't write any. Instead, she wrote: 'These dates are freaking useless. Why bother?' Then, Pam followed her assessment verbally, and in front of the whole class! Want to hear what she said?"

"Samantha already reported. The moth balls. To be frank, I agree."

"Let's leave the History-Schmistory for now. It's not worth it," Mary said kissing Mark in the cheek, "but please don't tell Pam it's OK to go around the school and humiliate teachers."

"Honey, the official term is to 'blah the teachers,' or so I was told."

"Oh, I forgot: Mike sent an e-mail today!"

"Excellent! How is he doing?"

"Fine. Arne and Mike ended up in the same platoon. Mike wrote, they got uniforms with a desert pattern. Like for North Africa, or Middle East. William says it's a positive development, for a change. The survival rates in the desert are way better than in the jungles."

The hope was thin, but Mark wisely kept it for himself. Perhaps, the boot camp temporary ran out of jungle camo and would eventually issue proper outfits. Or ship the draftees to jungles as is, in the desert uniforms, so their son sticks out like a sore thumb, ready to be picked by a guerrilla sniper. Instead, Mark said: "I think William is right. That's wonderful news, honey!" and returned a kiss...

Twenty minutes later, two pillows and the bed cover were on the floor, Mark's shorts and Mary's nightgown – crumpled at the bed head, while Mark and Mary laid naked, listening to the rain outside.

"You know what? With your presents – you are damn late! By about four years!" Mary said suddenly.

"Why?"

"Do you remember our first battle – about Sam's school sandals? If you just said, 'Shut up, honey!' And then – went with the girls and instead of ugly tire sandals bought those hippie ones, our domestic 'Civil War' wouldn't happen first place."

"Better late than never," Mark said, "admittedly, I disobeyed. I bought Samantha and Pamela bead calflets that day. Did they show to you?"

"No."

"Our daughters can be trusted with the FBI secrets! To be frank, even today I was scared. I imagined you throw the box at me and call it a waste of money. Did you call it inappropriate?"

"Absolutely right, darling. Inappropriate, impractical, and a total waste of money. So what? Barefoot sandals don't give you blisters and don't jump off your feet. Now I can splash through rain puddles: cool and awesome. And sexy... How did you like our sex tonight?"

Instead of the answer, Mark delivered Mary another long kiss. "Is our 'Civil War' over?"

"Over. I won't say nothing about 'not appropriate.' How are my double negatives – improving? Please stop reaming Pam. Nothing wrong with 'em."

"I am flabbergasted, honey. Next, you're going to tell Samantha it's OK to have a tattoo!"

"The tattoo – not yet. But the rest of the teen's fashion is fine with me. Even if instead of Paris la haute couture, it's invented at the 'Fill. Couturier-schmuturier! History-Schmistory! Appropriate-schmapropriate!" Mary slapped Mark's tight, "I am tired pretending!"

"Pretending what?"

"Pretending the Meltdown is temporary and will somehow fix itself. If we accept our present state to be permanent, we can happily live our inappropriate lives as everybody else."

I am tired pretending too, Mark decided. "I have to tell you, honey. I... They may force me to retire from the FBI."

"Retire? You mean: now?" Mary sounded strangely peaceful, and Mark thought she did not quite understand the news.

"Now! Next month, or even earlier."

"Because of the Butcher?"

"Yes. The brass in Washington is getting red-hot about it. They don't give a damn how many more will die, but need a scapegoat."

"It's OK, darling. Retire. No problems."

"But how do we live?" Mark could not comprehend Mary's calmness.

"How do we live? Like Ris and Billy. Like our neighbors Levin. Inappropriate. Simple. One day at the time. How Ruth put it: if you want nothing, you're happy with anything. Just-Adjust."

"But..."

Mary did not let Mark finish. "I have you, darling, and that's all I want!" In a split second, she was over him, her breasts, firm and hot, touched his chest, and her tongue penetrated Mark's lips...

They woke up at half-past three in the morning, – Mark's telephone was playing the urgent tune. An electronic voice in the speaker told Mark there was an emergency, and he had to report to the Station at once. As he was hastily getting dressed, an SMS from Benito Ferelli informed of the emergency nature. Arthur had been promoted to Category-4 and targeted to make its landfall at or near Houston.

It took Mark over an hour to get to the Station. The continuous drizzle changed to patches of moderately heavy rain, but yet with no wind. Perhaps, the hurricane remains in the Category-4 or skips the heavily populated areas. The latter was not very likely, Mark corrected himself. Not with all those refugees from the northern states, now settled in the South! The entire Coast, from Florida on the east and all the way around and down to the Mexican border on the west, became a 'heavily populated area'.

By the end of the Twentieth Century, the emergency response was for-real. If the United States were not immune to natural disasters, they at least had ample resources to deal with them. For a Category-5 hurricane, such as Andrew of 1992, the State Government announced a mandatory evacuation and mobilize the National Guards to help people out of the danger zone. Schools, hospitals, sporting facilities – all converted into emergency support centers and evacuation shelters. Dozens of search-and-rescue helicopters in the air and hundreds of rescue crews on the ground. The almighty military provided boats and trucks, emergency power generators, water purification, and mobile kitchens. After the disaster, the Feds would pour billion after billion (of the year-1990 full-weight dollars!) for the infrastructure repairs, and add few thousand able men from the USACE.

At the beginning of the Twenty-First Century, before the Meltdown, the emergency response still existed, but on somewhat reduced scale. If Category-5 Andrew took only sixty-five lives, Category-4 Ike was responsible for one hundred and thirty-five. Category-5 Katrina came with a devastating score of dead and missing: 1971! A voluntary evacuation instead of a mandatory one. 'Get into your car and drive off.' If you could. 'Volunteers, please report to the local school; bring food, water, and blankets.' If you could. The Police patrolled the streets, to give assistance, but mainly to prevent looting and fires. If they could. Six hundred National Guards would eventually show up, with one-and-a-half amphibious trucks, which fall apart upon touching water. The over-stretched and over-deployed US military flew rescue helicopters. Maximum two or three flights a day, mainly to assess the damage and carry paying customers, – the major networks' crews. And not to forget, the Air Force One circled above the disaster site, so the President saw from thirty thousand feet what happened to the hapless city and parachuted few million dollars of politically-loaded emergency assistance here and there. If the United States dealt with Katrina, it was not for the Federal Government, but for volunteers and NGOs.

Now, after the Meltdown, the emergency response is even simpler. For starters, no evacuation: mandatory or voluntary. With no cars and trucks, how do you evacuate? By foot, you make fifteen miles a day, and in the adverse weather – much less. A bicycle or an omnibus may extend your evacuation range by ten miles. By far, not enough to get off the hurricane's path. And even if you evacuate, what do you expect at the end of the journey? No spare food. No spare clothes or housing. The US National Guard has no Engineers and no equipment – all has been deployed in faraway lands, fighting these endless little wars.

Mark remembered the CNN coverage of Category-4 Sean in New Orleans, in 2027. A pre-election year, late September, and media opportunity – impossible to miss. While her husband took a helicopter flight to observe the rescue efforts, the First Lady distributed new school uniforms. The number of schoolchildren in the affected area far exceeded the uniform kits on board the Air Force One. Each child had to choose between a T-shirt, or a pair of shorts, or a schoolbag (the latter was fittingly equipped with the Republicans' logo.) Those who got into the middle of the endless queue were offered a choice between somewhat less useful items: a baseball cap or flip-flops, also with the Republican red-and-blue elephant. The kids at the end of the line – received a pen, a pencil, or a 48-page notebook. And for the very last, the First Lady had just a hearty handshake, a wish of good luck, and a gentle push from her Secret Service bodyguards: sorry kids, nothing left for you here, move on, move on.

As the Internet later had it, the honest CNN crew had been fired.

All the Houstonites could do at this point, – was to sit tight, cling on their belongings, and hope for the best.

# Chapter 23

When Mark arrived to the Station, most had already reported on-duty, summoned by the automatic emergency notification system. A large LCD screen in the hallway was on, switched to SRTV news. Instead of its usual night test table, the local station transmitted an electronic map, with the estimated path of the approaching hurricane and Doppler radar rainfall. The Station looked busy: almost everyone was on the phone, trying to improvise some kind of emergency response.

By the emergency roster, Mark and both junior CSIs were assigned to a Coroner team. Presumably, they would go around the districts and decide if any dead were strictly the hurricane's victims or due to human violence. To investigate the latter, the Station had another emergency team, headed by Alex the Russian Bear, with Alan Moss for a medical examiner and two deputies for firearm support.

Mark found his team members in the garage shack. Natalie, in her scene coverall and Tom, dressed only in cut-off jeans, stood on top of a deflated Zodiac boat and scratched their heads how to bring the little monster to life. The Police obtained these boats from military surplus, – back then, a category of surplus still existed. During the acquisition, the boats were already in mature age. Now, ten years later, the synthetic rubber was at its final.

Natalie stomped the goddamn rubber with her bare foot. "We christen this mighty ship USS Hole in One," she announced, breaking an imaginary bottle of Champagne over an imaginary ship hull. "In these boats, we make the first clients of our mobile Coroner office – ourselves!"

"More likely, we end up clients of our Shrink," Tom smiled. "To dare in such a piece of junk through a hurricane, – you must have five-inch cockroaches in your head! But if we put enough patches, and on calm water, it may hold a couple of bodies. Hopefully."

Mark nodded. "Should I give you a hand with your Hole in One?"

"Please don't! We infect you with our five-inch cockroaches in the head..."

Mark returned to his office. After labeling each murder location with a felt-tip, he removed the pins and folded the map from the wall. He synchronized his phone, unplugged the keyboard and screen from his laptop, pulled all the folders from the desk drawers, and packed everything into a carton. With the same felt-tip, wrote: FBI CASE EVIDENCE. EVACUATE – FIRST PRIORITY.

Mary called Mark around half-past six, a bit upset. "Mark! Samantha wants to go to the 'Fill! I said: no way! But she keeps telling me it's OK."

"Is she alone or with Frederick?"

"Altogether. Fred's Marty too. On Mike's trike."

"It's OK, honey. Let Samantha go. After all, in case of floods the 'Fill is the highest point in Houston."

"The highest point, my ass! OK, she may go. But Pamela and Patrick are staying home. SRTV says, schools are officially off."

"Of course, honey, everybody else stays. You know what to do. Check the windows. Make sure the phones are fully charged. And the torch-lights. Ask Patrick to find our emergency radio, somewhere between his toys... Get few bottles of water upstairs..."

"C'mon, darling! It's not my first hurricane," Mary replied. Now her tone was all-business. Surely she did not need any of Mark's instructions. Before the Meltdown, the Government spent millions of taxpayers' dollars to make stupid TV clips: WHAT TO DO IF THERE IS AN EMERGENCY. Now, living in the state of permanent emergency for the last fourteen years, the famous American common sense kicked in, and everybody knew what to do without any clips.

Mark helped Benito Ferelli to pack the Station Chief's archive, then wandered around the Station, offering help here and there. In the CSI conference room, Alan Moss was cleaning his service Glock while two young policemen and Alex removed storage grease from Uzi guns and stuffed magazines with ammo. Not a bad idea, Mark decided. He returned to his office and pulled rags and oil from the bottom drawer.

Benito popped his head in. "Cleaning your gun, Mark? Go, check the weapons' room. The Sheriff had been a good boy today, – by his orders, we can open the reserve ammo."

"I have two full clips already."

"Still, go get more, dude. You never know when you need 'em. Store is no sore. And – should you get Uzis for Natalie and Tom?"

"I think, we can skip it. Unlike the clients of Bear and Alan, our customers will not shoot back. The dead don't know how to shoot, even if they're – zombies. But lose an Uzi, – and we have to write excuses till Christmas."

"Probably, you're right," Benito said. As it often happens in emergency situations, now they had absolutely nothing to do. Within the resources available, the Station was ready. Even acorn coffee and fresh sandwiches had been sent to the Station by proactive shop owners. Mark finished assembling his gun and went to the weapons' room for the extra ammo. As he walked past the lobby, the news screen flashed an update: the hurricane had been promoted to Category-5.

Around noon, Bear's team got their first call: an armed robbery – a food shoppe owner was shot. Alex, Alan, and two deputies packed themselves into yellow Police raincoats and went to investigate. Mark's team was not invited. A bullet to the forehead, – hardly a Coroner's case.

Before the Meltdown, there used to be massive raids on supermarkets during the natural disasters. Even law-obeying citizens ran in to get themselves a tin of baby formula or a shrink-wrapped pack of bottled water – for free. A Police cruiser would be dispatched. Most often than not, the policemen stood peacefully at the entrance and watched the show. The United States was not China or North Korea, and nobody could give orders to shoot the armless, even if not strictly non-violent, crowd. Besides, all these Walmarts and Walgreens were insured, – a little looting was hardly a loss for their millionaire owners. No supermarket looting tonight – due to complete absence of supermarkets. The owners of tiny stalls and shoppes would protect their twenty feet of shelf space with their dear lives. Those twenty feet – all they had, and none of the insurance companies survived the crisis. Now the owners were sitting inside, their doors and windows – bolted shut, cartridges – in the gun chambers, and the fingers – on the triggers. No looting anymore, but a tough quick-draw competition, the Wild West style.

Around half-past one, Mark's phone beeped with a private call. Mary sounded upset again. "Mark? Davy's fever is back! One hundred and three degrees! We should see a doctor, what do you reckon? Ris wants to go alone, but with her belly..."

Mark glanced through the window. Outside, heavy rain pounded the parking lot, but looking at treetops, the wind was not too strong yet. "You're right, honey, Clarice can't go. Wait for me: I can be home in..." He checked the tree crowns again, "two hours."

"Two hours? By the time, we can find no doctor. I go myself!"

"Wait! Don't go alone. Take..." He wanted to say 'Mike', but corrected himself: "Pamela!"

"I better go with William. Clarice has a baby sling, so we can put Davy behind William's back."

"Great idea! Call the doctor's office first."

"I tried Doctor Smiths five times. It says the phone is switched off or out of network area."

"Never mind. Maybe, his battery got flat, or something wrong with the tower. Go anyway. If Smiths is not in the office, there is a licensed paramedic down the same street... Mister Bhapari, if I remember right. Try to find someone. Oh, don't forget to take all the money with you."

"All the money?"

"God knows how much the medicines might be, especially antibiotics. We still have twenty-six grand from my last salary. And ask Clarice, she saved two thousand for her new sandals."

After Mary disconnected her call, Mark suppressed an urge to drop everything and run home. Unfortunately, neither the hurricane, nor Mark's emergency duties could be canceled. Let's hope our Davy has only a little cold...

Tom scratched his fingers at the door jamb. "Problems?"

"My grandson has a serious fever, and we need to take him to a doctor, but the weather... Just look outside. How are your Zodiacs?"

"Inflated and holding. So far... Natalie went to take a nap. In the slammer, we have no other occupants. No arrests since the evening. The employees should be allowed to use the customer facilities once in a while! Good news: my script retrieved the Pentagon DB records, and I got them sorted, as you requested: special forces, from twenty-five to forty, and all. With all the filters applied, we have sixty-nine additional hits, on top of the records you have already. Should be in your mailbox."

"OK. Let's see our catch-of-the-day." Mark opened the evacuation carton and extracted his laptop. Under a minute, he had the first personnel record on the screen: "Bradley, Samuel O. West Point, 2012... Bradley... Such a cool surname for a cadet."

"Like the General Bradley, or M3 Bradley, the fighting vehicle?"

"I guess, both. His cool surname worked well... Graduated – with honors, 2016, half a year before the Meltdown. Second Lieutenant, assigned to the UN Peacekeeping force in Somalia, 2017. An Army Achievement Medal. First Lieutenant, Mexico, 2018. Got a Silver Star."

Mark continued reading. After Mexico, – Libya, 2020. The First Lieutenant was promoted to Captain and participated in the ill-conceived operation Gas Shield. Then, simultaneously: a Distinguished Service Medal, a Purple Heart, and an honorable discharge from the Army. The last known address was listed as The New Hope Homes Open Type Institution for Disabled Veterans, at Wallisville Highway, Highlands, Texas. The boxes for phone and e-mail address both contained quiet NA. A West Point graduate with honors, decorated with medals, and honorably discharged Captain Samuel O. Bradley became a purged record.

"This one is unlikely to be our client, Tom," Mark said, closing the PDF. "One of those Gas Gangrene boys."

"Gas Gangrene?"

"I'm sorry. That's an Army joke, I heard it at our local market. Never mind... You, Tom, better go join Natalie in the slammer. Arthur is a Cat-five already! We will have a busy night. While you two rest, I'll shuffle the records. And then – I wake up Natalie, and catch some Zees myself."

"Very well, sir. I'm on my way to the Station jail! "

Mark opened the next file. This guy served in the Navy SEALs, and was honorably discharged, but without a Purple Heart, indicating he was not wounded in combat. Either got sick with something very serious, or crippled himself during an exercise? Either way, for a time being, the name should be added to the list of suspects, and the photo – to Show to Espinosos folder...

After sitting for an hour, Mark selected a dozen of potential candidates. The next personnel form appeared on the screen. Spalding, Eric. The surname was vaguely familiar. Spalding, Spalding – ah! Two days ago, Samantha mentioned this surname. The night watchman at their synthetic gasoline plant. 'Weirdo,' she said.

On the file photo, Mark saw a young officer in the gray uniform of West Point graduate. Manly, a bit skinny, face, slightly narrowed eyes, and a proudly raised chin. Mark began to read the text. Cadet at West Point Academy, 2010. Graduated with honors, 2014. This looked like a copy of the Captain Bradley's record, only shifted two years earlier. Second Lieutenant, special training at the FBI Academy, Quantico, Virginia, 2014-2015. Here, it started getting rather unusual. The young officer was not deployed to fight a war, but sent to continue his education. Well, back then, the USA did not fight as many wars. Afghanistan, Iraq, and later: Iran, Mexico, Quebec, and Romania.

After Quantico, it became even more interesting. First Lieutenant, assigned to the DOD, Arlington County, Virginia, 2016. What the hell would a mere lieutenant do in the Pentagon? In the Department of Defense, lieutenants mean nothing, while colonels brew coffee for generals and admirals! It made no sense to take a with-honors West Point graduate, cross-train for two additional years in Quantico, and at the end – stick him into routine guard-and-garrison duties. OK, our lieutenant might be related to some big shot in Washington. After the Meltdown, daddy comfortably parked his offspring out of harm's way; no need to go and fight the wars as everybody else.

But it was not the case! In 2017, the young First Lieutenant got himself a Distinguished Service Medal and a Purple Heart. How can one earn a medal in the Pentagon's five walls? By kissing a five-star general in the butt? At the same time, dislocating your jaw, so a Purple Heart is also due! Sure, they give decorations for butt-kissing, but way below the soaring heights of the Distinguished Service Medal! That could only mean one thing. First Lieutenant Spalding was only listed in the Pentagon, but served someplace else. And not very safe place either, judging by the medals. Very interesting!

More extraordinary stuff followed. Spalding got promoted to Captain in 2017, and by 2018, – deployed at His Majesty's Royal Navy aviation base in Yeovilton, the UK. But wait! Spalding was not a naval officer, a pilot, or even a Marine. And – not British! What could an American infantry captain do at the Royal Navy aviation base? The file did not have an answer. It stated: 2019, a Medal of Honor, and the second Purple Heart. Captain Spalding did not consume the Royal Navy rations for nothing. Then, quite unexpectedly, Mark read: 2020, The United Kingdom Correction Facility at RAF Lakenheath, the UK. Other-than-honorable discharge followed in 2027, and Spalding was 'dropped from the officers roll.' But – no dishonorable dismissal: Captain Spalding remained in the current rank and with all the decorations. The last known address: South Mesa Slum, Houston, Texas. The e-mail address and the telephone number were not listed.

The file ended with a second photograph: the type of mugshot they make in prisons. Spalding was in a soldier uniform, without the insignia. The full face and profile shots, with computer-generated registration number at the bottom, and height lines over the pale blue backdrop. Exactly five-nine, Mark observed. Instead of the young ambitious West Point graduate from the first page, on the prison photo there was a mature man. His face looked even thinner, the facial features became sharper, and the nose slightly overhung the upper lip. The close-cropped hair was still dense. The eyes. The same, slightly narrowed glance. But now the eyes resembled the ones of a hunted wild animal.

Mark looked at the prison photo and slowly descended into a panic. Eric Spalding. Assuming the man worked at Frederick's gasoline plant, the source of the information leaks was, naturally, Mark himself! While at home, he often chatted with Mike about the Sheldon Butcher investigation. No, Mark never told the family members anything confidential, but over the last two years Mike became more familiar with the case than anybody from TV. The rest was trivial. At the plant, Spalding would casually ask Mike about the family, and how Dad was doing, and so on. Mike had never kept his mouth shut! Obviously, after Mike had been drafted, Spalding needed a new source of intelligence. That's why he was sucking up with Samantha! Besides, the profile said the serial killer was 'forensically aware.' What did Spalding study in Quantico? Behavioral Psychology? Unlikely. His approach to Samantha looked a bit clumsy for a pro. Therefore, he studied Forensics!

Something else was wrong with Spalding's service record, but Mark could not formulate it yet.

Mark picked his phone and located William in the Contacts. Before leaving for the Army, William passed his cell phone to Mike, and now it went from Mike to Samantha, but Mark had not bothered to change the name.

"Hello? Is it you, Mark?"

"Clarice? Why the phone is with you, and not with Samantha?"

"Sammy forgot to charge it yesterday, so she left it in the charger this morning."

"Very smart of her! Right when we need the phones! Anyway, how are you there?"

"OK, I guess. The hurricane preparations are all done. We're in the living room, watching the True Lies on DVD. The wind outside – o-oh! The entire house is shaking! I'm worried about Mary, Billy, and Davy."

"Not back yet?"

"No. And Mary's phone is not answering. Just says it's not on the network."

"Likely, something is wrong with mobile communications. Doctor Smiths also wasn't answering. Mary and William are probably fine, but simply can't call. OK, I dial Frederick now..."

Mark hung up and dialed Frederick Stolz. Come on, Mark begged, come on, pick the phone, man! Pick the bloody phone and tell me the name of your night watchman is not Eric Spalding, but Joe Spalding. And he is five feet two inches. Or the opposite, he is a former NBA player, who never served in the Army, due to his basketball-induced hernia. And if he sucks up to my daughter, – it's simply because he's such a sucker.

After the sixth tone, the telephone started its prerecorded message. "Greetings! You have reached Syntegas. I am the CEO and the Chief Scientist, Frederick Stolz, and I don't have a secretary. If I don't pick up the phone, two possible reasons. One. I'm doing something, from which our little plant can blow up. Two. Ka-boom! Besides the jokes. If you just want to buy some gas, – go to the website: three double-u dot Syntegas dot com. Everybody else: leave a message. I'll call you, honest. But only in the case number one, above. Stay safe!" The phone emitted an answering machine beep.

Mark grinned. He had not heard this particular version of Fred's answering machine message. "Frederick, this is Mark Pendergrass. If my Samantha did not blow the plant – please call me back."

Frederick's website was the same: business blended with fun. There was a page entitled A Bit of Chemistry. At the top, it explained why you can't convert old plastic scrap into real gasoline. Then, in the middle, it suddenly said, "What if you can't, but really want to?" The rest went on explaining why the plant products still could be used in a fuel tank with only minor risk to the engine. A page entitled Customer Feedback contained an officially-looking questionnaire form. Amongst the other things, it said, "In our gasoline, you are not satisfied with: (a) price, (b) octane number, (c) phenols, (d) asphaltenes, (e) odor, (f) color, (g) taste." If customers clicked the 'price' option, a window popped up, "Dear customer! The year is 2030 and not 2015. The price – as is. Sorry." And if customers clicked the 'taste', the window said, "ERROR: Wrong Orifice. Spit out – immediately!"

Mary, with her computer programming experience, helped Frederick with the website design. Back then, she said: "Fred, you have a major chemical enterprise. Why do you need all these trinkets? As a former programmer, I can assure you they look inappropriate."

To this Frederick replied, "Mary, my dear, all the major chemical enterprises work for the Pentagon. Whatever we are doing with the boys is called a hobby! I can't possibly take it seriously, – my former, now completely unnecessary, Ph.D. – disagrees. Nevertheless, because our hobby allows me occasionally to eat my Bratwursts with my favorite beer, I can't complain..."

The on-duty deputy knocked on the door and reported, "We've got an attempted robbery, at the corner of Beaumont and Erin. Two robbers are dead. The saloon owner says: three more ran away."

"OK, this looks like a Coroner case," Mark nodded. "Can you release my CSIs from the slammer?"

Mark turned his laptop off and put it back into the box. He replaced his sandals with rubber boots, double-checked his Glock, made a final glance around his little office, now ready for a swift evacuation, and put on his yellow raincoat. Tom and Natalie appeared in the hallway, yawning.

"Finally, they have a job for us," Tom said. "But how do we get there? Zodiacs?"

"Let's try on the bikes," Mark said, "I wish we had enough diesel for the response vehicles."

With the bikes, they had little success. The wind gusts were so strong, it was difficult to even stand straight, less ride a bicycle. They had to push the bikes, which became a useless burden. Notwithstanding the rain gear, they were instantly soaked to skin. Rain water unpleasantly squelched in Mark's boots, and he looked enviously at Natalie, shod in flip-flops and bravely walking straight through the puddles. Her feet were equally wet, but at least the 'flops did not squelch.

# Chapter 24

The good news, they did not need to walk too far – about a mile and a half.

"Probably a mistake to call you here, guys," the local Deputy apologized, "as a second thought, we rather made pictures with a cell phone, and you would send us a coroner's statement without leaving the Station."

"Hence we are here, who killed whom and at what place?" Mark asked.

"That saloon over there. The Shine Moonshine," Deputy pointed. "A very decent watering hole. The owner is a great guy – I know him well. Naturally, the saloon was closed, as everything else, but the robbers knocked. Such-and-such, we are traders, on the way home, the weather is terrible, could you let us in? The owner took pity of the guys and opened the door. And the so-called traders pulled out guns and knives! Only, they didn't see that the owner's son was sitting nice and quiet – behind the bar. With a rifle in his hands! The young man served in Mexico, as a sniper. Bang, bang! Two shots – two dead. Three others decided to flee for dear lives."

They quickly inspected the scene of the failed armed robbery. Natalie made few photos, put on latex gloves and packed belongings of the hapless burglars into evidence bags. For the weapons, they had an ancient revolver, by the looks, from the 1970-s, a shiny brass knuckles and a standard-issue Army knife. Tom pulled out a handheld fingerprint scanner, and ten minutes later reported the robbers had been identified. Both men were from western suburbs. By their main specialty – the fish traders, indeed. Probably today they did not have time to purchase their usual load of smoked fish in Galveston, and decided to earn money by a quick robbery.

Obvious from the first glance, the owner's son did not exceed limits of self-defense. The bullet holes in both robbers were in the upper third of the chest. The ex-sniper fired as taught in the Army, and positively at the attacking, not retreating enemies. Besides, the young man remained on the floor behind the bar, wrapped in a blanket, with a bottle of bourbon in his hand, and still shaking. One thing to fire a bullet into someone at five hundred yards, and quite another – to kill somebody like this, eye-to-eye.

Even if they wanted to, they could not carry the dead to the Station – how would you do it on the bikes? They left the local deputy to write a report and decide what to do with the bodies, and got out, under a canopy next to the saloon's front doors. Arthur raged now in full-strength. Beaumont Highway was not flooded yet, but in the gutters water stood almost level with the road. Mark tried to call Frederick Stolz again. Six standard beeps, a click, and: "Greetings! You have reached Syntegas..." What the hell was he doing there? He dialed Mary's phone. "The phone you dialed is switched off or outside network coverage area." He called William's number.

"Mark?"

"Clarice! Are Mary and William back?"

"Not yet."

"And Samantha?"

"Also not here. Mark, we're getting flood! The water is up to the front deck."

"Move to the second floor and sit tight."

Suddenly, Mark realized what was wrong with the Spalding's file. Despite the man got two Purple Hearts, he was not discharged from the Army as a disabled vet. Samantha did not mention any disability either. Of course, Spalding could have an artificial leg, which would explain his canvas sneakers and the limp. Still, with other-than-honorable discharge after serving his term in prison, he should have appeared in the last-year Pentagon list. Why was he omitted?

Mark turned to the CSIs, "Tom, can I ask a hypothetical question?"

"Sure thing. I love hypothetical."

"Let's say, we ask the Pentagon to give us a list to fit a particular profile. Age such-and-such, served in the special forces, and so on. Is it possible they omit some names from the list?"

"Of course, sir. Their DB admin is a human too. Humans make mistakes. Errare Humanum Est, so the Romans said. But the Romans certainly didn't have computers to amplify their screw-ups."

"No, I'm not about human errors, Tom. Can they omit a name on purpose? What if someone served on a nuclear submarine, for example?"

"If on a nuclear sub, nobody cares. It's not a big secret: they don't go to sea anymore. But if the person in question served in some very advanced military command, for instance, in Mil-Int, – they may consider if it's necessary to edit him or her out. Why do you ask?"

Most likely, my fantasies about Eric Spalding are just a first-degree paranoia, Mark thought. Even if other-than-honorably discharged Captain Eric Spalding was indeed a night watch at Frederick's plant, what made me conclude this particular Spalding became a serial killer? A military officer, with the highest decorations, twice wounded in action, maybe in the military intelligence. Well, Spalding ended up behind bars for something. So what? He served his time and got out, even retained his rank. Whatever the crime, it was not the worst type. More than likely, our Captain refused to take part in a covert operation. After the ill-fated Gas Shield, many officers lost faith in their commanders. Operation Gas Gangrene, they called it so for a reason.

"Just an unrelated thought," Mark avoided the answer. "OK. That's what we do. You guys start for the Station, and I'll pay a quick visit to my friend's gasoline plant at the 'Fill. Just one mile from here."

Tom hesitated. "We'd better stick together in such weather."

"No, Tom. It's private business. I just need to check if my daughter is OK, that's all," Mark said. "I'll join you at the Station in about an hour."

"Good luck," Natalie pointed to the river-like highway gutter, "if you need a boat – call." She kicked off her flip-flops and stuck them under her scene kit at the bike rack. Tom followed Natalie's example and removed his rubber boots. Waist-deep in water, they forded the gutter and began pushing their bikes along the rain-drenched road, leaning against gusts of wind.

Mark was afraid to take his boots off and scooped them full while getting to the highway, but at this point it made no difference. At least, for him the storm was blowing in the back, and he walked, or more precisely, – ran, trying to slow down his bike, pushed by the wind.

Filthy alleys at the McCarty Road Landfill were deserted. The garbage processing shops were all closed, but few stacks emitted fine plumes of smoke, even more noticeable in the rain. Mike once said that most smelters ran their furnaces day and night. Surely, guards were inside, keeping one eye on the fire, and the other – on the door, and lightly fingering whatever weapon they had handy.

What would he tell Spalding, if it was, of course, the Eric Spalding from the file? Presumably, Frederick and the kids had gone home. The night watchman – at the plant, along with Jasmine Hobson and her two brothers. Spalding must be armed. It would be real-nice if Captain Spalding followed the rules of engagement as taught in West Point: first, positively identify the target, and only then – shoot. You got to stop thinking the night watchman and Captain Eric Spalding are the same person, Mark reminded himself. Much greater chance, the watchman had never been to West Point, knew nothing about the rules of engagement, and would start shooting left and right. And then, it would turn out the watchman's name was Joe, and he was a former NBA player with a hernia.

But if the watchman was indeed – the Butcher, Mark had no legal reason to make an arrest!

He only had a vague suspicion, based on a file from the Pentagon database. Even during the rough times immediately after the Meltdown, no judge would approve. Besides, looking at Spalding's service record, even if Mark had a couple of armed deputies, such an arrest would be dangerous. Thus, no arrest today. But then, Mark's visit to the gasoline plant would tell Eric Spalding the FBI was after him, and the ex-special forces man's behavior might become unpredictable.

Mark desperately needed a plausible excuse for his visit. Right: Jasmine and her brothers! I must look at Eric Spalding, as if he is a piece of furniture, Mark decided. A mere civilian, an irrelevant nobody. Special Agent-in-Charge Pendergrass, a dull FBI bureaucrat, comes to see Hobsons who are on his Witness Protection; other civilians, please step back...

Mark planned the possible dialog in his head. Introductions, show the badge. Then: "may I have your name, sir? Eric Spalding?" Show no emotions. "These three teenagers – the Hobsons family, are they at the plant? I'm here to move the kids to another location. Where to? I'm not at freedom to tell you. Witness Protection, you must understand, blah, blah, blah..." If Mark played this just right, Spalding would suspect nothing.

The gasoline plant gate was bolted, but a brick chimney above the boiler room emitted smoke. As Mike explained, once a bomb started, it should run the full cycle. Stop it before the due time, – and you face an unpleasant business of cleaning semi-cooked plastic by hand. Mark banged on the gates for full five minutes until someone from the inside answered: "is it you, Jass?"

Half a minute later, a small look-out window opened in the gate, and a man poked out. A raincoat hood shadowed the face. "Who the hell are you? Get lost!"

Mark produced his badge and started along the prepared line: "FBI, Special Agent Pendergrass."

"Wow! From the FBI!" Behind the gates, the latch rattled, and one wing came slightly ajar. "OK. Please come in."

Mark touched his Glock with the left elbow, felt the reassuring weight of the gun, and pushed his bike inside. Everything seemed to be fine. Was it the Eric Spalding from the Pentagon file or not? "What's your name, sir?" So far, Mark only knew the watchman was exactly as tall as the Butcher (or Eric Spalding) – five feet and nine inches. Mark also saw that the watchman had a twelve-gauge. In its former life, this weapon was probably used for clay pigeon shooting, but now both the barrels and the butt were sawed off, turning it into a poor man's version of a tactical shotgun.

The watchman shut the gate and threw the bolt in place. Then, he turned and removed his hood. The man's face had a lot in common with the face of Eric Spalding on the file photos, but the man was positively not the Captain Eric Spalding. Mark's well-trained eye instantly counted a dozen of differences: the nose, the ear shape, slightly arched eyebrows... Mark felt a huge relief.

The man introduced himself: "Rick Spalding. In charge of the plant security. Howdy, sir? And, uh, please don't mind the gun. Reasonable precautions."

"I don't mind the gun, Mister Spalding," Mark replied, shaking the man's hand, "Extra caution does not hurt, especially on a day like this." The shortened name 'Rick' could be 'Richard,' 'Patrick,' or quite possibly 'Eric,' but it was just a coincidence. Besides, the watchman seemed friendly enough, and did not look worried or nervous.

Spalding pointed towards the yard. "Goddamn rain! Let's get into the office, sir."

Mark leaned his bike against the gate and followed the watchman. What a nice pair of rubber boots, he mentioned. Wellingtons. Must be bloody expensive and not easy to find. Even the FBI did not have access to such supplies. This Rick Spalding was not lame.

We have a diagnosis for you, Mister Pendergrass. You have Schizophrenia! With delusions! Relax! Spalding is not the Butcher. Just an abstract night watchman at the 'Fill, and nothing to do with the serial killings. We prescribe you Prozac, or something from a backyard pharmacy. You feel better in no time!

At the office entrance, the watchman knocked mud from his boots. Next, he solemnly opened the door and motioned for Mark to enter. "How may I be of assistance, sir?" he said: a British butler from an old Hollywood movie.

Mark looked around the darkish office. The furniture was Spartan. At the window, a plywood box with a battered oilcloth served as an improvised coffee table. Along the walls, there were similarly improvised shelves, with multiple folders and books. Three little stools were placed around the coffee table. In the corner, – a prehistoric-looking fire safe. Two huge dilapidated office desks and two equally abused leather chairs occupied the center of the room. The desk next to the safe was buried under a pile of books and papers, while the second one – empty, except for a strange-looking tin box with electric contacts and thumb-switches. At the far end of the room, there was a second door, fitted with milk-white glass: either a storage or a sleeping room for the watchman.

Following the earlier conversation plan seemed pointless, so Mark asked directly, "Frederick Stolz – is he at the plant? I tried to call, but all I got was the damn answering machine..."

"The local cell tower is down. We had no coverage after lunch."

"But – the Syntegas answering machine?"

"Oh, it's because Mister Stolz has an expensive plan. The answering machine is a computer at the phone station. Translates the voice messages into a text, all bells and whistles."

"I see. I worried and decided to drop by, just in case. Frederick, his Martin, and our Samantha went to the 'Fill this morning..."

"Oh, you must be the father of Samantha and Michael!" the watchman shined a wide smile, "wonderful children you have, sir, wonderful! When Samantha joined us here at the plant, I said: excellent idea, Mister Stolz!"

The watchman was shamelessly lying. Samantha said, the first reaction was: 'a maggot for a Chief Technologist?' Spalding is an ordinary suck-up. A type who always say what you're pleased to hear.

"So are they at the plant?"

"Gone home an hour ago."

Mark looked through the half-open window at the rain-drenched yard. Mike's cargo tricycle stood at its usual spot – in the corner, under the shed. Two orange jerrycans at the platform and no rubber boots under the seat. Good Samantha put her boots on. The road was flooded, and the murky water hid all sorts of crap.

Mark unbuttoned his raincoat and pulled out his phone. Here, at the plant, it had no signal. "What about Jasmine and her brothers, Mister Spalding?" he asked.

"They're gone too. Probably, got scared of the hurricane and decided to spend the night at the school..."

"If so, I'd better be on my way. Would you let me out of the gate, please?"

"Wait! You're all soaked! I have hot coffee. A substitute, naturally, but almost as good as the real thing," Spalding pushed a rickety stool towards Mark. "Have a seat. I insist, sir!"

After a second of hesitation, Mark took off his raincoat. The watchman pulled out two mugs, blew inside to remove the imaginary dust and poured coffee from a thermal flask. Indeed, the drink tasted almost like a real coffee.

"You shouldn't go around the 'Fill alone, especially in such weather," the watchman said. "I wouldn't dare to leave the plant for any damn money! Of course, you have a gun, all that stuff... At the Police Station – do they know you're at Syntegas?"

Mark had his mouth full of hot coffee, so he did not respond. Somebody started banging at the gate: timidly at first, and then in full force.

"Who the hell is this?" Spalding said, "must be those damn rats from the 'Fill. The ones who don't have a territory of their own. If it rains, they steal scrap from the others, and come here to sell, below the standard price. I'm not going to open. They will bang for a while and go away."

"What if it's Jasmine and the boys?" Mark asked. The banging at the gates continued, more insistent.

"Nah. Unlikely to be Jasmine. Must be the bloody rats. I gave myself a resolution: never buy scrap from these scoundrels. I'm no chemical engineer. All these PVC, POM, Lexan, Delrin, Nylon, – no bloody idea! And these guys tend to sell you all kinds of wrong stuff. Mister Stolz comes in the morning and gives me hard time. Either: hey, this scrap is no good, or: hey, the scrap is OK, but you paid too much! I'm always wrong."

Mark wondered: now the watchman suddenly did not expect Jasmine anymore. But when he went to the gate the last time, he shouted the opposite: 'Is it you, Jass?'

"OK, I'll go look who the hell is out there," the watchman said, reluctantly taking his raincoat from the hook. As if he did not want to leave me here alone, Mark thought.

Spalding cracked open his shotgun, glanced at brass heads of the cartridges in the chambers, and snapped it closed again. Meanwhile, the banging had stopped. The watchman hesitated, but he already had his coat on and his gun checked, so he went out into the rain. After a short while, Mark heard: "Jass?", a loud click of the look-out window, and few moments later – a heavy bang of the gate's bolt.

Suddenly, a gust of wind shook the room, and the little door at the far end of the office, rattling with its glass, flew open. Yes, it actually was the watchman's sleeping hole: a tiny, four-by-six feet closet, with a wooden couch set against the wall.

What the heck, Mark said to himself. On a colorful baby blanket spread over the couch, there were two tightly stuffed backpacks: one huge, from camouflage fabric, the type usually associated with paratroopers, and one small, dark-black, like a schoolbag. On the top of the large backpack, a pair of rubber boots was tied. Mark recognized Mike's boots, – or more precisely: Samantha's boots, he corrected himself.

The right boot had a neat patch on the toe. Mark remembered how last year his son pierced a hole. For three weeks, Mike complained of missing the right glue and made endless temporary fixes with rags or duct tape. Finally, the glue had been obtained, and the patch had been applied permanently.

It did not surprise Mark the night watchman had collected his bags: merely getting ready for the hurricane, in case the plant was inundated. Mark was not surprised Samantha gave her boots to Spalding and went home in bare feet. By now, – hardly surprising. The highway must be 'so-o-o wonderfully flooded,' or she would drop a line of hating this terrible water squelch. All the crap on the road did not concern Mark anymore. His younger kids, with their one hundred percent anti-sissy feet, could go barefoot in any weather and for any distance, even to the other side of Houston. Yet, the watchman had his chic Wellingtons. Why would he ask Samantha to lend him a second pair of rubber boots?

Mark realized, or more precisely, instinctively felt that his daughter had not gone home, but remained somewhere at the plant. He pulled out his Glock, check the cartridge loaded in the barrel, and peered through the window. And just in time: by the corner of his eye, Mark spotted the watchman who approached the office door with the shotgun ready in his hands. 'Rick Spalding' was moving a little sideways, quietly placing each step of his chic Wellingtons on slippery mud: the way an experienced hunter comes to his prey. The special forces' training was evident. Mark raised his gun to eye level and stepped into the sleeping closet.

The watchman, however, pushed the entrance door a little, saw his closet open, and realized he could not fool the FBI agent any longer. Without much aiming, he fired one barrel of his shotgun into the room, jumped back, and zigzagged across the yard towards the reactors' line. Mark stepped to the window, ready to shoot, but Spalding turned and fired from the second barrel. A spray of glass from the shattered window rattled through the room. Mark hesitated with his shot, and the watchman disappeared behind reactor number three.

"Missed your opportunity to shoot, FBI man?" to overcome the rain, the watchman shouted words like military commands, loud and clear.

"Decided to give you another chance, buddy," Mark shouted back, "I will have my shot later. Where's Samantha? The others?"

"Oh, buddy! Your Samantha... Sorry... She had to go..."

Mark's heart fell.

"Just kidding," the watchman continued after a theatrical pause, "your Sammy is alive and perfectly well. She had to go behind reactor three, that's all! Want to check it yourself? Samantha, dear, tell Daddy how you love him..."

Almost instantly, Samantha's voice: "Daddy?"

"Samantha? Are you all-right?" Mark yelled.

"...Yeah," Samantha did not sound very certain. Given the circumstances, Mark's 'all-right' was an exaggeration. "Mister Sto..." It sounded like if Samantha was gagged.

"You'd better shut up, my dear. Daddy doesn't need to know the disposition," the watchman said instead. Then, louder, for Mark: "OK, buddy. Now you know your daughter's alive. Happy? To make sure we have full understanding between us... Do you want full understanding?"

"Sure," Mark yelled. The situation was not in his favor: Spalding, or whoever he was, had multiple hostages, including Mark's daughter.

"OK. I got to explain you what I have in my gun. I have manly balls, buddy. Minié balls! Heard of such a thing? It works like this. If I shoot one through your daughter's lower jaw, her face will stay here. Nice, and pretty, and a little surprised. But for her brains – you have to walk to the highway! ¿Entender? Now, your daughter and me, nicely and quietly, cross the yard and into the boiler room. Please make sure you don't make any sudden moves. My shotgun – it has so-o-o sensitive trigger! Tell me you understand what I say."

"Got it," Mark replied, calculating in his head. How many hostages and where are they located? Samantha, Frederick, and Martin – three. The Hobsons – six. The stokers: Mr. Kingsley and his daughter – eight. Danny, the foreman, and four roughnecks. Thirteen? The hostages must be in the boiler room – that's why 'Spalding' wants to get there: to control the situation and use all the hostages in his negotiations. But why was Samantha behind reactor number three and not with the others?

"Here we go," Spalding shouted, "as I said, no surprises!"

In the narrow passage between reactors two and three, Samantha and the watchman appeared. Mark's daughter, in half-torn T-shirt and jeans rolled up to her knees, barefoot, and drenched by the rain, – was in the front. She had a piece of silver duct tape over her mouth and hands apparently tied behind her back. Spalding held his shotgun trimmed to Samantha's neck.

"OK, my dear. Slowly and gently," the watchman encouraged Samantha. "Excellent. Excellent! Now: do not turn. Face your Daddy, and move to the left, one step at the time. Watch your feet and make sure not to slip. If you slip, it may turn rather ugly, understand?"

He walked behind Samantha's back, minimizing Mark's chances for a clean shot. Even if he had one, Mark would not dare. Only in the movies, a bullet through the skull kills instantly. In reality, if the gun barrel is pointed at the hostage, the last convulsion is more than enough for a deadly round. Over the full century of hostage situations, the FBI learned it hard way. A sniper placed a perfect shot through the criminal's forehead, and the hostage got her bullet with probability exceeding ninety-five percent.

The watchman and Samantha continued in this sideways fashion across the yard and finally came to an opening in the boiler room wall. Mark saw how Spalding reached out with his left hand and picked a flashlight from the workbench. Then, both he and Samantha disappeared behind the brick partition.

# Chapter 25

The voice of Spalding suddenly came into the office: much quieter, but so distinct, Mark almost jumped on the spot.

"Well-done, buddy. I'm happy you didn't shoot." Mark saw a plastic pipe between the office windows, with a kind of sound bullhorn at the end.

"Did I scare you, buddy? Arne calls this: sounduit. A short of sound conduit, see? Actually, he built it for me. In the night, the boiler cools down, and here, in the boiler room, – he has a little bell. I hear it from the office and come over to add coal... Now – we're all settled, the comm link is established, and you can start your negotiations. Is it so in your FBI handbooks?"

"I tell you this, 'Spalding.' What's your real name? You leave the hostages, and I let you walk out of here. No shooting and no hot pursuit, understand? This I can guarantee you. What comes next, – your own luck. Run quickly, and you won't get caught." Saying this, Mark did not waste time. He picked a piece of broken glass from the floor and a roll of duct tape from the shelf, broke a leg of one stool, and now was making a makeshift periscope.

"My name will do you no good, buddy. Sure, I'm not Spalding, you've guessed it right! Call me 'Rick,' close enough. And can I call you: 'Mark,' if you don't mind? But for leaving the hostages and walking out of here, you, Mark, are probably joking. As soon as you get to the highway, your cell phone gets the bloody signal, and all the Texas Police will be on my tail."

"Let it be 'Rick.' And how do you know, Rick, my phone doesn't get the signal right now? What if I've sent an SMS for a backup?" Now he tried his handiwork, sticking the periscope beyond the window edge. The reflection was not exceptionally clear, but at least he could observe the enemy without being shot. The yard was empty. He put the gun on the floor and pulled out his phone. No signal.

"Well, Mark, you are probably not familiar with Houston infrastructure maintenance. Strong competition, see: whoever is the first to arrive. If the telephone guys win – most likely, the antennas will be fixed. If the bloody strips happen to be first, your neighborhood will be out of coverage forever. Did you know they now have a high-power winch to rip cables from the ground?"

"I saw one." In Mark's cul-de-sac, the signal was perfect, but a little to the east, – there was a 'hole': one night, the tower was disassembled by strips. Now the locals marched along the dirt paths with mobile phones raised above their heads. A new method of sending and receiving e-mails and SMS: activate your phone, and walk until you get into the coverage zone. In any case, before the end of the hurricane, nobody would repair the Landfill tower.

"OK, Rick," Mark proposed, re-holstering the phone and picking his gun from the floor. "I throw my cell phone out of the window, and you pick it. Who else has phones here? Frederick's phone – you probably have it already. The Kingsleys? Denny? Take their phones too. So you will have at least two hours to disappear in the rain. Nobody gets hurt..."

"A counter-proposal, Mark. You throw out not only your phone, but also your gun. I tie you up with the rest. After the hurricane is over, somebody will find you. And so, I have a couple of days to make my escape from the State of Texas." The night watchman did not take Mark's bait about the Kingsleys, so the exact number of hostages remained unknown.

"You can't be serious, Rick. I throw out my gun, and you shoot a Minié ball through my head, don't you?" If the FBI had snipers on the roofs, Mark could offer himself as a hostage in exchange for his daughter and the rest. Alas, with no snipers, disarming in front of the criminal was nothing but an elaborate suicide.

"Let's talk your alternatives, buddy. What if I mark the time now? Say, five minutes. And at the end of these, mind you, very short five minutes, – I fire one of my Minié balls straight into your good neighbor, Frederick R. Stolz, Ph.D.? Imagine the highly-organized brain of our Ph.D. all over the place! Do you understand what an irreplaceable loss will it be to the modern chemical science? Here, our Ph.D. looks upset. He doesn't want a Minié ball, hey, Fred? Then, I will time another five minutes – and shoot again. Sammy – the last! I shoot her in the leg. Gives you a chance to reconsider my generous offer while she's bleeding to death."

"And what are your alternatives, Rick?" Mark replied, "imagine, you kill all the hostages. You have nothing to negotiate with. No leverage. I will not let you go, rest assured. At the Station, they will eventually start looking for me. And I guarantee you. If you touch just one hostage, – you will have a very slow death. If not me, our Sarge, the Russian Bear, he will slice you like a salami. First, we stick a gas torch in your ass. While it's heating, we shoot your testicles off."

The night watchman suddenly burst out laughing. "With my testicles, you're too bloody late, buddy. I lost those back in Libya! Believe it or not, I have nothing down there in the pants. The bastards left me a little stub for the wee to come out! I call it 'my clitoris.' A battlefield version of trans-gender surgery, so to speak. But – they gave me a shiny Purple Heart as a replacement. For the sexual satisfaction, hooray!"

If the watchman was the Sheldon Butcher, the damaged genitalia perfectly explained why the victims were not sexually violated. Mark recalled Spalding's service record. "When did you go to Libya?"

"Two thousand nineteen, buddy."

"Bullshit! In 2019, we had no war in Libya."

"Mostly didn't, but few of us... I was in the Firebirds! As the matter of fact, because we were there in 2019, – the rest of the boys went across the pond in 2020. A walk in the park! We – we did everything damn right! Only, our brave Air Force made such a shit out of the sweet deal. All the same, it's not their first time to screw up ground troops."

"What are those Firebirds? Flame-throwers?"

"Flame-throwers! Your naivety makes me laugh, Mark. They didn't tell you such stuff in the FBI, did they? F.Y.I., the Firebirds is a special unit! Like the Navy SEALs, but far more secret. We made it so, that Libya attacked America, and not the opposite way around... My suggestion, let's drop these old war stories and talk something constructive."

From the sounduit Mark heard banging and scratching noise, as if someone was trying to break strong plastic. Now Mark was almost one hundred percent sure the night watchman was the Sheldon Butcher, but he decided to make it certain. "The constructive conversation doesn't happen, apparently. But tell me, Rick: what did you do to all the meat?" If Rick replied: 'With what meat?' Mark would have to drop his assumption. Rick had his nerves stretched to the limit too. In such a situation, impossible to lie.

The assumption had been confirmed. Rick said in a matter-of-factual manner: "With the meat? What can you do with the meat, buddy? Soup. Steaks. Wiener Schnitzel. Hungarian Goulash. Human flesh – nothing could be better! They say: those who once tried – can't stop. For life." In the bullhorn, the banging noise continued.

"So, did you simply kill for the meat?" Mark asked. The Hungarian Goulash somehow still did not fit into a coherent mental picture.

"Oh, no-o-o, buddy. If just for the meat – I would find some easier target. No. You must understand, they're in the woods: kissing each other, making love... Can't stand it! Go kill, – and it feels better. For a while... Back when your Mike worked here... He tells me how your Billy bangs his Rissy, and I'm like: damn! Here I am, with two arms and two legs, grinding my teeth, jealous! And to whom? To the blind-and-armless basket case! Wanted to kill him..."

Mike was way too talkative, Mark thought. "You don't know, Rick. Maybe, you could find someone who loved you – not only for your balls."

"Yeah, right. As if I have never tried. Without the dick, buddy, nothing works, not quite... The meat, – it's just a by-product. My grandad was a hunter. He always said: once you kill, must eat it. Should not let the thing rot in the woods. Besides, I had to follow the example of our wonderful American Government, do I?"

"The American Government? In what sense?"

"Mark, you don't look a complete idiot. Why can't you get it yourself? Had the FBI together with the CNN brainwashed you so well, you can't see it anymore? I enlighten you, listen in. The United States are cannibalized!" The plastic screeched again.

"What the hell are you talking about? Cannibalized? By whom?"

"Not in the literal sense. Not yet, anyway. But take your Billy. In the Engineers, he was pumping the remaining gas in Venezuela – from minefields! They cannibalized his arms, did they?"

"Don't you touch my son, you bastard! William was wounded for the country!"

"I have a right to talk anything I want, buddy. The First Amendment is still standing. Besides, I myself did not spill my balls – on a golf course! Suffered for the country too, and with medals. To be honest, for your Billy – I'm sorry, Mark. As well as for your Mike. Did he go to the Infantry? A cannon fodder, so to speak? The Pentagon will cannibalize him too. What do you say if your second son comes back with no legs and gets himself a Social Optimum? With a second-hand uniform, a shiny medal, and a red bucket for a bonus, hey?"

Mark did not reply.

"Now, to your daughters, Mark. They're cannibalized too! Our new Law says: a girl of fourteen, like your Sammy – has rights! Can't drink beer, but she may have consensual sex, get married, or give birth. She even can register and become a licensed hooker – no probs, all opportunities are open. Here, Mark, your Sammy nods. She wants to say she already..."

"Already what?"

"No, not what you think. She already has a right! To pup babies every year, so we have more cannon fodder! Abortions – banned! The Pill – banned! Condoms? Not banned, so far, but tell me: where is a secret shop one can buy them now? Did you get it? Welcome to the US breeding program!" Again: a careful, determined knock on plastic.

"Forget boys and girls, Mark! Even our streets are cannibalized! On your street, have you seen the bloody strips lately? This time around, what part of your life became 'unnecessary?' Electric poles, sewage pipes, underground cables? A cell phone tower? A playground? Someone's fence? Someone's deck? Here, at the 'Fill! Our Doctor Stolz and the others. The entire landfill is pushed through these goddamn reactors, to squeeze out the last drop of bloody gas! The United States – is one huge meat grinder! The government is turning, turning, turning the handle! Not all at once. We go slowly, in small, controllable groups. And slowly, slowly – we all become juicy hamburgers! Or Wiener Schnitzels, whatever."

Why was he telling me all this? Suddenly, Mark understood. The Butcher was not stalling the negotiations. He was making his, perhaps, entirely sincere talk, while manufacturing something. Likely, converting the flashlight he picked from the bench, before entering the boiler room. He tried to work quietly, but was probably missing a knife or a screwdriver, so he had to break the plastic. But what the hell was he doing with the poor flashlight?

Wait! That tin on the table. One switch labeled: ON-OFF. The second switch, with big 'plus' and 'minus' next to it. And a single push button marked: 3 SEC. Exactly how Frederick explained during their vodka session: a positive voltage for three seconds, then, a negative voltage for three seconds... Mark finally understood what the tin was: a homemade blasting box for a TriSafe deto!

Mark crawled to the second window and lifted his periscope. And here it was. Three bombs on the left had several wraps of something, which looked like a plastic clothes line. Against the darkened metal, with streaks of oil and chemicals, the green cord was not particularly noticeable. The goddamn Primacord! Exactly like a clothes line, only with explosives inside. So much for sleeping during my counter-terrorism briefings! Then, he saw that the Primacord ended in a small shiny tube. From the tube, a thin electric wire went towards the boiler enclosure. A detonator!

Bang! The glass of Mark's periscope shattered, dousing him with tiny fragments. He rolled to the left window and picked a piece of glass from the floor. Now he did not have time to fasten it to the stool leg. With his back against the wall, he stood next to the window, held the glass near the bottom of the frame, and looked at the reflection. Bang! This time, the bullet hit a notch below the window, making a formidable hole. If Mark was on the floor, the bullet would pass straight through his forehead.

Now the night watchman had to reload his shotgun. Mark jumped to the window opening and assumed the classic FBI Weaver stance: holding his Glock with both hands, right elbow slightly bent and pushing forward, the left hand supporting the right from below. He suppressed his breath and aligned the gun sights with the detonator. Frederick said, while the deto was not yet 'activated,' a bullet should not make it explode. About the Primacord, Mark was unsure. Likely, from a pistol bullet, it should not explode too, or it made little sense to use the safe detos. The first shot hit a foot too high. The lack of practice was evident. Mark took his aim again, this time a fraction lower, and gently, as taught by the FBI instructors, pulled the trigger. The gun shot should come as a surprise for you, the instructors liked to repeat. The second bullet struck the reactor one inch from the target, knocking a fountain of sparks, but the deto was still undisturbed.

With the corner of his eye, Mark noticed the shotgun barrel being lifted in the brick wall opening. He turned slightly and fired towards the Butcher. No time to aim properly, so the shot fell far below, sending a spray of mud towards the boiler room. All the same, the Butcher did not expect this bullet. He fired at random, and a loud ricochet shrieked on the galvanized office roof. Mark jumped away from the window, and just in time: a second shotgun report came. The heavy bullet hit the wall at the place Mark's head had been a fraction of a second before the shot. Mark took the Weaver stance and made another aim at the detonator. As two prior rounds, this was again unsuccessful. To hit a little tube, not any thicker than a ballpoint pen, and less than three inches in length, from the distance of fifteen yards – like extinguishing a candle with a pistol shot. Even when Mark was young, and did his firearm practice every week, such a feat was beyond his talents!

Mark did not have time to aim his next shot. Because he saw something, from which his jaw had dropped, and his Glock nearly fell out of his hands. On the scaffolding under the shed roof, above the brick wall of the boiler enclosure, there was Jasmine! Slowly placing her bare feet on rusty pipes and dirty planks, she tried to be silent. Mark's heart skipped a beat. If the Butcher looked up, – Jasmine would be dead meat.

The scav had thick chemical gloves and clutched a huge beaker with yellowish oily liquid in it. The wind blew rain under the shed roof. Once in a while, the raindrops hit the beaker, and after each drop the liquid emitted a little plume of heavy steam. A few drops of acid – and this was positively a concentrated acid, – had spilled on Jasmine's shirt and chewed ugly black holes in the fabric. Mark saw how Jasmine bit her lower lip.

The shotgun barrel came up again. Mark jumped, dodging yet another bullet. He ran to the right window, stuck out his hand and fired two shots at random, trying not to lift the gun too much, so his bullets would not come close to Jasmine. I must continue shooting, so the Butcher don't have time to look up, Mark reminded himself. He rolled over to the left window, leaned out slightly and sent his bullet into the brickwork, to the place, from which the shotgun barrel protruded a moment ago.

"Shoot, Daddy, shoot! He's connecting wires!" Samantha's voice came from the sounduit bullhorn. She somehow pulled the duct tape from her mouth, Mark guessed. "Mister Stolz! And Marty! They're behind! Number two!"

OK, so the Butcher was screwing my brains, Mark realized. Besides Samantha, no other hostages in the boiler room. Frederick and Martin were tied to reactor number two. With the Primacord! Obviously, Samantha was with them, until the Butcher untied her to negotiate his safe passage to the boiler room. The Butcher carefully planned his exodus, using Arthur as a perfect cover-up. He would bind the hostages to the reactors with Primacord. Just before the flooding, he would blow everything up! All in small chunks: metal, plastic, biological remains from several people, plus all kinds of nasty chemicals. A big fire would follow. No wonder, Frederick called his reactors bombs. The rain and the wind would get everything mixed up, and the flood – wash the rest: difficult, if not entirely impossible to establish if the night watchman perished in the explosion or not. Yet another gruesome accident in a garbage shop. At the 'Fill, such mishaps were too common.

Even if in the future the Sheldon Butcher investigation was somehow associated with the Syntegas watchman, the Butcher himself would be presumed dead. Arthur came, the chemical plant blew up, and the chain of serial killings – stopped.

It also became clear why the Butcher decided not to shoot the hostages. Why would he risk it? Some diligent CSI might find a charred bone, and in it – a bullet hole, with traces of lead from a homemade Minié ball, implying a firearm fight preceded the explosion. While in the Army, this guy was in those very special Firebirds. Must be a specialist for planting fake forensic evidence! 'Forensically aware,' or 'forensically trained,' whatever.

Then, Mark realized that his sudden arrival to Syntegas had spoiled the Butcher the entire game. If the explosion killed only the plant workers, it would be easily written off as an accident. But if the same explosion killed the FBI agent, the CSIs might dig a bit deeper. Thus, the Butcher decided to share his wonderful coffee with the agent and learn how much the FBI knew. At that point the Butcher would decide if to kill Mark at the plant and drag his body out, or let Mark go, follow him, and pop him around Beaumont Highway...

"Dad, he got the wires!"

"Shut up, bitch! Want your brains all over that wall?" the Butcher yelled. Fortunately, no shot followed. The Butcher had one round in the chamber, but his hands were probably occupied with the torch and the wires, Mark guessed. If so, it meant the Butcher had connected a battery, or a motor-generator, whatever he had extracted from the flashlight. They had a little more than six seconds before the explosion. Two times by three seconds, add a second to flip the polarity twice. Now Mark had nothing to lose. He stood again in the Weaver stance and aimed. Bang! A shot came totally unexpected to Mark – just as he was taught. The bullet hit very close to the target, without damaging it. He took another aim, holding his breath, and slowly, slowly, pulled the trigger.

What followed, was etched in Mark's memory as a high-speed video. The detonator, with a small chunk of Primacord still attached to it, was cut off by the bullet. The damn shiny tube flipped in the air and plunked into the mud. A split moment later, it exploded! In loud, but harmless bang, spilling the mud all over the place. Mark realized he made the impossible. The reactor explosion had been averted, at least for now.

"A-a-a-ah!" the night watchman shouted.

Mark took a careful aim to the brick wall opening. Now the detonator was destroyed, and the Butcher became unpredictable. With Samantha in the boiler room and Jasmine on the scaffolding above, Mark's only option was to divert the serial killer's attention towards the office. This meant nothing short of a mindless charge. The Charge of the Light Brigade, he remembered suddenly. Mark's History teacher was way better than the idiot Mr. Connely.

Plunged in the battery-smoke

Right thro' the line they broke

Ready for his attack, Mark looked out and saw that the Butcher stuck his head through the opening. He did not see me shooting the deto off, Mark understood. He just thought either the detonator or the Primacord were faulty. Wondering if somebody sold you a clothes line instead of the real thing? Here comes your bullet, you bastard!

Mark shifted the gun sights to the new target and pulled the trigger. Click. He focused his eyes at the gun and realized that the slide was not fully in the forward position. His old and tired Glock finally gave up. She did not eject the cartridge from the previous shot, sticking the new one sideways.

Surprised and with adrenaline boiling in his blood, Mark started working up the slide, trying to dislodge the cartridge. Then, a loud shotgun report came. The Minié ball had finally found its target, like Amazon piranha, – hungrily ripping human flesh. Mark's body jerked. His right arm felt as if scalded with boiling water. The useless Glock fell from Mark's fingers and flew to the floor. The FBI Agent collapsed back and to the side, on the way down wrecking the coffee table. At this very moment – Mark heard an inhuman scream. It rang in Mark's ears for a long-long while: "Ya-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a!"

Overcoming a sudden weakness, Mark put his left hand over the gaping hole in his right upper arm. I must pick the gun, I must get these cartridges out, he repeated to himself. The Butcher was probably reloading right now. As soon as he sticks the new rounds into the chambers, – the game is over. The bastard would kill me immediately, and the rest – a little later. Perhaps, still by the massive explosion. The Primacord was still wrapped around the bombs, and the Butcher did not make impression of a clown who plans a demolition job without having a spare deto in his pocket.

Mark tried to stand up, but only got to his knees. Only then did he realize the non-human sounds were still coming from the yard. Now it was not a scream of pain, but more like a breathless shriek: "Eee... Eee... Eee... Eee... Eee..."

Mark crawled to the window and looked out. Sheldon Butcher was rolling in the sticky mud, clutching his face. Between the blackened fingers: his blood, and something else, probably, semi-dissolved skin. His eyeballs were coming out too, leaking like squashed eggs. Jasmine was standing at the scaffolding, still with the chemical beaker in her gloved hands, but now the glass was empty.

All strength had deserted him, and Mark lost consciousness.

# Chapter 26

Mark opened his eyes: he was in a bed. Sun shone through a broken window with no trace of glass. The lower part of the window frame was patched with recycled cartons and duct tape. The walls, used to be off-white, now displayed a zebra-like pattern of yellowish and blackish stains from many years of use. He tried to move and discovered his neck was in a spinal collar, while his right arm – in a plaster and protruded at an odd angle from under the bed sheet.

He felt no pain, and was in absolutely peaceful and optimistic mood. The sun was so wonderfully bright, and the sky – so outlandishly blue. Fresh air came through so marvelously broken window into a room with these funny yellow and black stains on the wall. The bed mattress was soft and comfy. Mark was floating in the air! Even the disinfection smelled flowers.

Yet, a memory on the back of his mind did not let Mark to remain in-peace. Something about Frederick Stolz and his gasoline plant. Oh, it was raining like hell, and Mark was shooting into a shiny metal stick at the end of a clothes line... Unpleasant... Forget it, Mark, a voice in the head suggested. Relax. Enjoy your air-soft bed, the sun, and the zebra walls.

But the other part of his brain started fighting, pushing to the surface the rain and wind, and the Weaver stance, and the shotgun with Minié balls, and the leaking eyes between blackened fingers... Suddenly, Mark remembered the entire thing. Samantha! Is she OK? He was pretty sure with little effort he could fly above the bed – out the broken window and into the blue sky. How do I navigate? Never mind, we figure it out, the head voice said.

"Mark? Mark!" Clarice's voice, not one in his head. Mark turned his entire body to the left, struggling in the collar. A sheet of dirty plastic film separated two beds from the hospital ward. Clarice sat at the second bed, dressed in mens pajamas, with both her hands supporting her pregnant tummy. Little Davy half-sat, half-lay on grayish pillows, dragging Thomas The Tank Engine over a wrinkled bed sheet.

"Mark! Finally! Thanks God!"

"Hi, Clarice..." Mark squeezed out in a desperate half-whisper, "is Samantha OK? And everybody else?"

"Oh, Sammy is fine. They patched her and released right away. Just a little acid burn. Mister Stolz and his Marty – also fine. Sammy said: not a scratch!"

It meant at least some of Mark's memory was true. Relax, relax, the voice in the head started again. No worries. "Wait a moment, Clarice. Where am I? Is it a hospital?"

"Hospital! What else?"

"Why is Davy here?"

"A little polio..."

"A little what?"

"Polio," she said matter-of-factly, as if her son had a little cold.

A little polio, the no-worries part of Mark's brain said. A common childhood infection with ninety-seven percent survival rate, nothing to worry about. But the other, ever-worrying part of the brain kept coming with a question. "Will Davy be... paralyzed?" Mark finally ejected the dreaded word.

"His hands are not affected. The doctor said, the legs may still get better..." She lifted the bed sheet, and Mark saw the toddler's legs were stretched on the bed and did not move.

"I'm sorry, Clarice."

"Actually, he's lucky. Mary and Billy brought Davy to the hospital just before the floods... He was on a ventilator for a whole day. Not everybody got a ventilator! First came, first served!"

So lucky, the no-worries part of the brain said. To fight polio, we have modern technology: an Iron Lung. Some kids get polio and can't walk. To be expected. No big deal. "Will he walk at all?" the other part of the brain asked.

"The doctor said, we will only know in about three weeks... Well, the other day, the rehab nurse was here. She said like this: you must hope for the best, but prepare for the worst."

"For the worst?"

"If the legs stay paralyzed, the muscles will tighten little-by-little, so the knees twist, permanently. Most likely – a wheelchair..."

The no-worries part of Mark's head took the initiative: "It's OK, Clarice. We find Davy a skateboard! Kate Bowen said, a skate is much better than a wheelchair."

Clarice gave Mark a perplexed look.

"How long... have I been here?" The ever-worry part of Mark asked. Why Clarice looks at me like I'm crazy, he wondered. Just a little multiple personalities disorder. Not even a full-blown psychosis.

"Do you remember anything at all?"

"Nope. The last I remember was at the bloody gasoline plant..."

He tried to concentrate. Apparently, he did not have a total amnesia. The memory preserved several disjointed episodes, but not in any obvious chronological order, and – exceptionally odd. Mark somehow knew this hospital ward had sixteen beds. He saw the whole room, or rather a small hall. Judging from few remaining pieces of expensive designer furniture, before the Meltdown this building was not a hospital, but a posh office.

In one episode, Mary ran along the aisle between the beds, flapping her wings in the air. Yes, instead of arms, she had wings, like a giant crane bird. Clarice rolled behind Mary in the form of a record-breaking Swiss cheese. She knew that Mary has no crane-flying experience and tried preventing her mother-in-law from taking off and smashing her head on those ceiling panels.

Then, Mark remembered how a gigantic cuttlefish swam through the ward, from bed to bed. The cuttlefish was light-purple, with several red spots and looked very professional with a stethoscope draped over its slimy body. The creature navigated to Mark's bed, raised an X-ray with one of its tentacles and said reassuringly, "Boo-boo-boo!", released a cloud of black ink and swam to the door.

Yet another memory episode, in which Mark, Chief Medical Examiner Alan Moss, and an unknown deputy went along Beaumont Highway in a Zodiac inflatable boat. Every so often, the outboard engine sneezed and stopped, so the deputy cursed and pulled its cord to restart. He explained Alan about the wasted O-rings and how water mixes with engine oil. Alan did not pay attention to the deputy, but talked only to Mark. A total nonsense: how he was always happy to see Mark in the morgue, but only as a visitor, and by no means – as a client.

Mark closed his eyes and concentrated more. There was an episode, which he could not clearly cut into either a hallucination or the reality. Mark was in an operation theater, under a bright lamp and with an oxygen tube plastered to his nose. "Should we give him a mask?" somebody asked. The voice was strange: devoid of its higher frequencies and coming slowly, as from a tape recorder with flat batteries.

"Na-ah... He'll be OK," another male voice said. A man in surgical scrubs bent over the table and pulled down Mark's eyelid. Every faster move left a color trail in the air.

"Frankly, I'm impressed. What do you use?" The first voice again.

"RPBP number five."

"Never heard about. What the hell is that?"

"You're behind modern medicine, colleague!"

"On the goddamn Dumpster, no wonder we're behind. Do we have time to read?" Oh, this is a surgeon from the Dumpster, Mark concluded. How do they call them? Chainsaws?

"He's pulling your leg, Roger." Now a female voice, but also from a slowed-down tape. "RPBP stands for Red Pill, Blue Pill! The number five is their latest blend."

"You mean, a designer drug?"

"Yep! Our local stuff. Still, better than Morphine from our emergency reserves, vintage of 1992. Unlike French wines, Morphine doesn't get any better with age. Only – more and more expensive."

"Do you know what is actually in this blend?"

"That's a trade secret. But the maker has all the dosage charts at his website, very professional. We never had problems with its quality. All top-notch."

"Addictive?"

"You betcha!" The male voice replied instead, "but so is the Morphine. We can't complain. Yesterday, I was extracting a ten-inch splinter. Heavily septic, as you may imagine. So I am doing my thing, and my patient explains me the difference between a hippo and a giraffe! I ask him: any pain? And he says: we're on safari, doctor! A little pain is OK. Happy – like a cucumber."

"I should tell my boss about this wonder drug. Don't forget to give me the contacts for this Red Pill, Blue Pill fellow."

On the Dumpster, there are so many unhappy soldiers: crying, yelling, swearing. It would be so much nicer to give the wounded this RPBP number five instead of – whatever they're currently using. So your patients are cucumber-happy, while you chop their arms and legs.

"Appreciate your help, Roger," the second voice said. "Without you – we would be totally screwed today."

"To be frank, colleague, I didn't want to come at all. Imagine: in three bloody years, I got myself a proper leave. The problem with a forty-hour shore pass: first you sleep for twenty hours, and then you drink for twenty hours. Whack! You find yourself back on board, sailing south, with a headache, and nothing to talk about."

"Presumably, this time, you have plenty to tell."

"Yeah, right! Ended up going from hospital to hospital and helping with the surgery. As if I have not amputated enough arms and legs at the Dumpster."

"Circus tigers can't live in the wild, colleague. They only know how to jump through fire hoops."

Along with the medics' chit-chat, a complex activity was going on at Mark's right side. A guy in purple surgical scrubs, his shoulders moving constantly up and down. A second guy appeared, holding a boat motor starting cord, with a shiny handle at the end. Ah, they had to start their little surgical chainsaw! Why the hell there were no Barney and Friends on their scrubs? No good.

The chainsaw did not want to start. The guy in dull, no-Barney, scrubs pulled and pulled the shiny handle. The other poured, presumably gas. "More?" he asked once in a while.

"More!" the first said.

"The O-rings are wasted," Mark said, "your engine oil is contaminated with water."

"What water?" The man in no-Barney scrubs asked.

How stupid of me. A chainsaw is not a boat motor! The problem must be in poor-quality, diluted with nobody knows what, bootlegged gas!

"Next time, you'd better buy the gas from Frederick Stolz," Mark informed the hapless surgeons.

"A friend of yours?"

"Yes. An excellent guy. He is a Ph.D. Invented a detonator for booby traps. Has his own petrochemical plant: the Syntegas. My daughter Samantha is a Chief Technologist! They make the best petrol in town."

"Do you feel... anything?" the first doctor asked.

"That damn collar. A bit tight."

"It can be fixed," the second doctor assured Mark. He made a swift motion with his hand. The latex glove was smeared with blood. Did he cut his finger while starting the motor? "Give him another five cc, IV push."

"Gentlemen, I am sorry to inform you," Mark said, "your scrubs are boring! Get yourself Barney and Friends instead."

The surgeons looked at each other and nodded. Mark understood they had a consensus. This operation, they manage somehow, but for the next one, – their dull no-Barney scrubs had to go.

Suddenly, something snapped in the chainsaw. Oh-oh, now we're in trouble. But the surgeons understood few things about chainsaw maintenance. After dumping broken parts into a plastic bucket under the table, they started filing and patching. Satisfied with the fix, the first said: "OK, looks excellent. Let's close it."

"Did – you – fix – it, – gentlemen?" Mark asked. After the nurse applied a syringe to a silicone port in his IV drip, everything was even slower.

"You – did – very – well," the doctor talked slower too, and his boring, no-Barney scrubs left dull purple rainbows in the air. "Look, I'm real sorry we had to amputate, but nothing else could be done."

Had to amputate? – Mark thought. Of course! The first doctor came from the Dumpster. A chainsaw with a chainsaw! So funny! Mark tried to move, but could not feel arms and legs. They made me a Quad, Mark realized. Perfectly. Stumped. Will they give me a Purple Heart? For an FBI agent – unlikely. But who needs those Purple Hearts anymore? Only sissies, who can't show real battle scars...

The sun shone on a pavement, making Mark's piece of recycled cardboard pleasantly warm. He looked down. A little red bucket between the leg stumps. It was his.

A woman appeared from the fog: barefoot and in dirty evening dress. She took a bamboo pole from her shoulder and lowered two heavy baskets on the pavement in front of his carton.

"At your usual spot, Mark?"

"How are you, Rosalind? Did those youngsters bother you again?"

"No, thanks God! Last night, – all quiet. Here is your dollar." The donation dropped into Mark's bucket.

"Thank you so much, ma'am. You're always so kind."

"Why did'ya give him a dollar?" Cart wheels squeaked on the dirty pavement. "Quads are useless. Pay me sixty-lah!"

"Shut up," Mark said to the Malaymerican coolie with golf umbrella.

The lunch lady and the rude boy disappeared in the fog.

"Change for Vets! Change for Vets!" Mark shouted. "Ladies and Gentlemen! A moment of attention. I have neither arms nor legs." No, it can't be right. Too pompous. How about this? "Change for Vets, folks! I haven't no arms. I haven't no legs! How are my new double negatives, hey? Change for Vets!"

A pair of shiny shoes and a picture-perfect blue skirt materialized. One shoe touched Mark's donation bucket to align it with the cardboard edge.

"I need to make a photo of your daughter, Mark! Where is Pam sitting today?" Miss Johnson, the Salvation Way poster lady, held a camera. "Two SWC records in one week, imagine! Tonight, a portrait of our new cash machine will be on the Collector of the Month board!"

Mark turned his head and saw a line of vets: Michael, Samantha, Pamela, and Patrick. Placed at precise five-yards intervals, and each outfitted with a second-hand uniform, a piece of cardboard to sit upon, and a genuine, with a serial number, donation bucket. Perfectly. Stumped.

"Mark! Mark! Mark?"

Mark opened his eyes. Clarice was over his bed, her face worried. "You just drifted off," she said.

"Must be the wonder drug in my IV. Still working its magic."

"The doctor ordered to reduce the drip this morning."

"Is his name – Roger?"

"Who's? Doctor's? No, he is, I think, Justin."

"Oh, what a stupid dream..." Now the no-worries part of Mark's brain had somewhat weakened, and the other part, ever-worrying but acute, – was slowly taking over. The bed was not air-soft anymore, the stains on the wall looked ugly, and Mark felt his body. He lifted his left hand and investigated its condition. Few scratches here and there, painted with Iodine, a broken nail, but nothing serious. He tried to move his toes. The feet pleasantly responded. "Why am I in the collar?"

"You have a tiny crack in the fourth vertebra, plus a slight concussion. The Police guys said, you broke a coffee table with your head."

"I guess, I did. Great then, nothing serious. Just a broken arm..."

"A broken arm?" Clarice's eyes opened wide. "No, Mark, you had an operation. You don't remember nothing, do you?"

"What operation?" Mark twisted and stared at his right arm. The shoulder responded with a jolt of sharp pain. What he took for the heavily plastered arm was an above-elbow stump, generously wrapped in gauze and stretched amongst pipes and rods. No surprise. The bloody Minié ball! The hole had been larger than his palm. He was not too upset either. After being a Quad in his dream, having his two legs and one arm back – felt like an unexpected Christmas present. "I see... How long have I been – like this?"

"Four days. Well, you were asleep. Most of the time, anyway."

"Was I talking nonsense?"

"A bit about a cuttlefish. A lot about chainsaw maintenance. Bad O-rings, wrong gas. Also, you wanted to see somebody called Barney. Who is it – a witness?"

"No, Clarice. Barney is a T-Rex. Friendly, purple, and huggable. Can I have a sip of water?"

Clarice reached for a glass with a drinking straw.

Mark took a sip. The water was warm and smelt of disinfectants, but for Mark it tasted like the best Champagne. "You said, Samantha had an acid burn."

"Nothing serious."

"Really nothing serious?" If Davy just had 'little polio,' 'nothing serious' could mean anything!

"Really, Mark. She is back to the gas plant, fixing those bombs, or whatever. Mister Stolz can't pay no money, but everybody agreed to work no-pay, just to get the production going. Our neighborhood is all-right. Only polio, no cholera."

"Cholera?"

"They said on the radio. Everybody must wash hands and boil water! The school is on quarantine. Ricky and Pam are helping at home. They cleaned the garage. Now planting veggies and digging through the house. Ricky found this Thomas Engine yesterday."

"Wait! Digging through the house, you said?"

"Maybe, I shouldn't tell you this. The house collapsed! Only the garage is standing. Do you still want the whole story?"

"Hence you've started."

"After you called the second time, the flood started coming in. We moved upstairs. Then: ka-boom! The kitchen exploded! Grandpa David said: next time, listen to the electricity man."

After the grid was disconnected, they modified the house wiring. Back then, the electrician suggested the hybrid car battery should be on the second floor, and not under the kitchen, but Mark did not want the ugly box in the upstairs bedrooms. Not a smart decision in hindsight. "The battery blew up, did it?"

"Yeah! So, we had no light, and no TV. Then, the phone had no signal, but we had Ricky's emergency radio. We took turns with its crank and listened to weather updates. In the morning, I went to check downstairs..."

"And?"

"The water was about waist-high. The wall panels – all broke off. But I thought: the wind stopped, now the flood must come down too, we just need to wait it over. We had food upstairs, and I fixed breakfast from the jars. Then, we heard: creak, creak! And the floor started moving. So I said: everybody to the roof! We broke the window above the garage and got out. Pam wanted to go back for the blankets and plastic film, but I said: forget it!"

Mark imagined Clarice, with her seven-months tummy, climbing through the window. "Did the house collapse?"

"Yeah. But the garage was OK, lucky us! We hadn't no blankets! And no water! Ricky decided to climb down to get from the flood, but I said: don't even think about! The backyard latrines, and the canal, and the harmless Simpson-Kaufman fertilizer, you know... I told Ricky: take your T-shirt off and collect the rain from the roof."

"A very smart move, Clarice! I'm sure, cholera is around because people drank contaminated water." Thanks God, William married this girl. She was simple-minded, not too educated, and in-hurry to make babies, but without her, half of the family would be dead by now.

"I'm thinking: so good, they didn't give Billy his compensation money! We would spend it all on the stupid renovation, and other such things, like I wanted. Our money are very safe in Pentagon, right?"

"Right. In the Pentagon, your money is very safe..." Clarice could find a silver lining in any cloud, Mark thought. "How are the neighbors?"

"The Levins lost part of the roof, but kinda OK. The Kongs don't have no house: gone completely, even the garage. Missis Levin let two rooms to the Kongs, no-pay. The other houses on our street – all different. Some broke, some – still standing."

Mark closed his eyes and imagined how their cul-de-sac would look like. Not right now, but let's say, in one-year time. The strips would take apart the piles of rubble, and shacks would be constructed instead. The endless rows of vegetable beds would be restored, no doubts. Top priority, or they would have no food. Their battery blew up. Too bad. Likely, their solar panels were also beyond repair. Well, they needed to learn how to live without electricity. The TVs and computers were gone, anyway. The nights – even darker than now: only the stars and the Moon. The stinky West Canal instead of the Submariner's Shower. Four bricks instead of a stove, with processed cow dung...

What he saw in his mental picture, looked still marginally better than the Indomerican part of GRS, but slightly worse than South Mesa. How should we call our brand-new slum? Perhaps, West Canal Slum.

Arthur was the wrong name. They should call the hurricane Equalizer, like the famous Colt's gun. One week ago, it was all in comparison. Social gradation. Classes. My house, in a 'good neighborhood,' is larger and way more comfortable than your shack in a 'slum.' You go wash yourself in a dirty pond, and I take almost-warm showers, even if we have to bring water from the Reservoir one mile away. I work for a federal agency, and you dig stinky garbage at the 'Fill. Your kids are landfill maggots, dressed in rags and permanently barefoot. My kids – go to school, in reasonably new second-hand camo, and have shoes, even if refuse to put those ugly tire sandals on. I am an upper-middle-class, and you're – whatever...

But now, after the hurricane, we became all the same. We live in identical slums and cook our chowder on identical dung. The Year Zero had arrived. Welcome to the United Slums of America!

# Chapter 27

When Mark opened his eyes again, it was nearly sunset. Clarice explained, he went into a deep, peaceful sleep, and she decided not to disturb him. Thankfully, this time Mark had no dreams whatsoever. His body started getting rid of RPBP wonder-drug. Now, Mark felt a little pain in the shoulder, but his mind was clearer, and not split anymore.

"I called your friend Alex in the Police, Sammy at the 'Fill, and sent a text to Mary," Clarice said. "Alex will be here – about now. Mary has not replied yet."

"Would it be easier to call?"

"Not really. Something wrong with our tower, but the phone guys say, they can't fix all the slums at once. Patrick goes to the market twice a day to fetch e-mails."

Great, Mark grinned, our neighborhood became a slum, officially! "How do you get power to charge the phones?"

"The neighbors at the corner, they got their solar panels working. Damian, that boy with no hands, now has a new business: telephone charging, ten bucks a piece."

The improvised partition flew open: the colleagues brought a Get Well Soon card from the Station. The presents had been delivered: two little tin cans of tuna from military rations (dated 2023 – where did they find such a treasure?), jars of honey and homemade jam, and a loaf of freshly baked bread. Ben reached into his pocket and added a thin bundle of crumpled banknotes.

"All we collected at the Station. The city is in a cash crisis of sorts."

"Why are you in coveralls? Working a scene?"

Ben smiled. "We have a little club of homeless policemen, all camping at the Station. The uniforms have been sent to laundry. The crime scenes – too. I'm desperate to have my FBI Agent back! With a stretch of imagination, I can fit at least fifty new cases under your personal jurisdiction!"

"I'm a vet now. Do you need a cripple?" With his left hand, Mark pointed to the gauze contraption in place of his missing arm.

"Dude, be realistic. As the Police Station Chief, I don't give a damn how many arms you have. For Christ sake, you are an FBI Special Agent-in-Charge, not a bloody lumberjack!"

"If I were you, Mark, I'd stick in here for a while, and let our dear boss re-sharpen his investigation skills." Alex pulled a business card. "And talking your arm: my son asked to pass you this."

A piece of yellowish recycled cardstock, not printed, but handwritten in calligraphic letters. VET-TO-VET. Prosthetics & Mobility Aids. Independent private clinic. The phone numbers followed.

"Has your Peter started a prosthesis business?" Mark asked.

"As soon as we clean the yard and plant veggies! And you thought, the gas torch he bought the other day – is for some asshole sergeant to give gangsters free proctology exams? William may be interested too, but I have to give a fair warning: my son and his friends have never done an artificial arm, so you and William become their guinea pigs."

"I hope your son won't lose money." Mark turned the card in his fingers. "In Limbs for Life, military vets get their arms and legs for free."

"The competition is gone, Mark! The Limbs for Life is closing down. Peter's business partner was laid off from it yesterday. Such an opportunity! With their equipment and skills, the boys are at the right place and at the right time."

Mark blinked. "Do you mean: a federal program had been closed? How come?"

"Not only the federal clinics," Benito replied instead of Alex. "Two days ago, the President declared our Harris County, and three others, a disaster zone. A lot of the usual political blah-blah in the speech, but the main message, even he didn't say directly: we got to use our internal resources to rebuild the city. No help will be provided, period! The county borders are quarantined; nobody can get in or out. We're on our own."

"That's because of cholera," Mark said.

"Nope! The President used word 'self-reliance' at least seventeen times. Towards the end – I lost the count. The feds abandoned Houston completely. Now, the good news: the FBI HQ in Washington is not your direct boss anymore! I am! Congratulations, dude."

Mark looked at the business card once again. VETS-TO-VETS. Houston-to-Houston. Slum-to-slum. By your own resources. And it wasn't the pre-election year either. This time over, no Air Force One with free school uniforms and the First Lady on board.

"OK, boss," Mark said. "Who is our prosecutor then? The District Attorney? I need to prepare the paperwork for the Butcher."

"No need, Mark," Alex said. "Our mutual friend died before we got him to the Station. With the acid burns, it so happens: one minute you are kinda OK, then: bang! Sad to see how he suffered before the end!" He smiled and winked. Sarge had delivered as promised.

"Good riddance," Ben said, "I am already pulling twenty hours a day. Man, I always hated to fill the paperwork."

"And who ever liked it?" Mark said. "Have you got a positive ID on the Butcher?"

"Oh! Good you reminded me!" Out of the breast pocket of his coverall, Ben extracted Mark's mobile phone. "Fully charged. Check your mail."

"Your Glock is a write-off, Mark," Natalie said. "The plastic is no good. Tom will find you a new gun."

"Tell Tom to get a revolver instead of an automatic," Alex said. "Forget your Weaver stance, Mark. I teach you to shoot a classic duel stand, – one arm is better than two."

"I am not in-hurry to have another gunfight!" Mark clumsily set his phone on the bed sheet and opened the message. A standard military personnel file. Judging by the photo – the night watchman.

Farmer, Richard S. Born in San Francisco, California, 1994. Volunteered for the Army, 2015. A paratrooper training. Deployment to Mexico. No decorations. Became a Corporal in 2016. Extended his contract and was promoted to Sergeant in 2018. An accelerated chemical warfare training course. And after that, the paths of Richard Farmer and Eric Spalding had intersected: Sergeant was assigned to the same Royal Navy airbase in Yeovilton, the UK. In 2019, Farmer received a Distinguished Service Medal and a Purple Heart. And then, in 2020, together with Captain Spalding, he found himself at the US military correctional facility of the Royal Air Force base Lakenheath. But unlike Eric Spalding, he was not discharged. The file ended: Died, 01/11/2027.

"Are you telling me, guys, I'm shot by a dead man? For a zombie of 2027 vintage, he is well-preserved."

"What you see is what you get, Mark," Natalie said, "of course, we couldn't compare the iris scans and the fingerprints – all eaten by acid. But: we had a perfect DNA match. The error probability is less than one to ten million. Even more, it turns out this guy had criminal background. He volunteered for the Army to escape an investigation."

"They were trying to get him in for an assault and a rape," Ben said. "The only witness refused to testify in court, so Farmer got away clean. How did he become Eric Spalding? Hard to tell. They had a big fire at the correctional facility, and many convicts and guards perished. Probably, Farmer swapped his identity in the hospital, from which he was released, without returning to the prison..."

"I can bet you my right arm the Pentagon has all the details," Mark said. I can bet it any time now, he thought. Being a vet has its perks.

"You betcha they have! I sent my request to the Pentagon twice. My first returned: nothing we know. I asked the FBI liaison officer in Wash to help with my second. Finally, the Pentagon replied. You should have a copy in your mail."

Mark opened the second document and whistled. Dated 2021, but besides the names: Eric Spalding and Richard Farmer, – it was incomprehensible. Eighty percent of the text had been censored with a black marker. What was left vaguely described some kind of special operations, in the most difficult environment, in an unmentioned location and almost unclear when.

"My gut feeling," Mark said, "the Pentagon will keep sending us the same mambo-jumbo. For reasons of national security, we aren't supposed to know. This Spalding, sorry: Farmer, told me what they did in Libya. He was in a Special Forces unit. The Firebirds."

"The Firebirds? Never heard of it."

"I too didn't know, not until I met the Butcher. You remember the incident, which started the war in Libya, do you? It was all over the CNN: a terrorist attack on our base."

"Operation Gas Shield? Sure! Chem' or bio' weapons. Four hundred dead from a single mortar shell. Then, later on, they found a mobile Ricin factory in Libya."

"Exactly! So it all clicks in. Captain Eric Spalding, with his cross-training in Quantico, was the group commander, and at the same time – a CSI expert. A specialist in planting fake evidence, to be precise. Sergeant Rick Farmer – a specialist in chem' and bio' warfare. What do you reckon – is it worth digging more into this crap?"

"Probably not, Mark... Yesterday, I suddenly received a call – all the way up from the FBI in Washington, D.C. First, they asked: how is our Special Agent-in-Charge doing? I said: still listed serious, but getting better... Then, they asked: how sure are you this Richard Farmer is your Sheldon Butcher? I said: he is not mine, sir. Your agent caught him, and under the FBI jurisdiction. I've only helped. But the Sheldon Butcher – definitely, one hundred percent. The CSIs have positive ID on his knife. We have his tennis sneakers. The bastard glued chunks of old tire on the soles, so the footprints looked like from a pair of locally made 'flops. Besides, these shoes were once white, but he painted them black. And so goes all the other evidence: the black backpack, the balaclava, the polka-dot working gloves..."

"We have also got a positive ID on the gloves," Natalie said. "At the left index finger, two rubber dots are missing. Coincided with the imprint from the case number twelve."

"So, I said: all indications line up. And the FBI guys tell me: thanks for your assistance, Major. The perpetrator is dead, the case is closed. For the Special Agent-in-Charge – an attaboy from HQ. A bonus pay and possibly a grade promotion are to follow. The CSIs will also get something nice – directly from the Harris County Sheriff's Office. Blah-blah-blah, all hunky-dory. And then, these bastards gave me a friendly advice: the Butcher's military background – forget it ever existed. I responded as a real FBI: I can't recall, sir, what military background are you talking about?"

"Well-done, Ben!" Mark succeeded a wry smile.

"I take it, Richard Farmer is positively the Sheldon Butcher, but the former has never served in the Army. Should we dig into the Firebirds?"

"I can't recall, Major. What Firebirds are you talking about?" Mark replied. He had no doubt the Pentagon had more Firebirds, all around the world. Now they sit in the jungles and prepare a 'pirate attack of the Brazilian Navy on the United States' peaceful convoy.' All the necessary evidence will be planted – with perfection: a war for the ability to make war for the ability to make war.

Natalie started offloading the latest Police gossips. During the hurricane, CSI Tom got under debris and ended with a broken rib, but with a new girlfriend. Remember scav Alice he was after? Alan Moss was grumpy from caffeine deprivation: he lost four pounds of his last real coffee after the lab was flooded. Kate Bowen became a hero in her slum. With Kim and Tan, she organized volunteers, built rafts and evacuated two hundred kids.

"Medals will be coming for all three," Alex added.

A rushing swish of feet on linoleum. Ben touched the plastic film and glanced outside. "We'd better be going, dude. Get well."

Samantha could not wait and delivered a hug and a kiss to her father. Frederick Stolz and Jasmine smiled.

"What have you done to your face, Sam?" Mark asked. Tiny black dots of tattoo in-the-making surrounded a partially healed two-inch scar on Samantha's left cheek.

"Mom said: it's OK. Since Jassy gave me this scar, I'd better convert it into something... practical."

"I called the best tattoo spec'list at the 'Fill," Jasmine said.

In tight jeans with strategically placed holes, and oversized military T-shirts, knotted at above belly-buttons, the girls looked twins. Both were barefoot and with identical haircuts: a practical half-inch 'Fill Crop. My daughter became a real scav, Mark thought. Fine occupation, nothing wrong with it.

"You don't approve, Dad, do you?" Samantha asked.

"Hence you're using the best spec'list at the 'Fill, I can hesitantly give my permission," Mark said. "Besides, you've already started." After Arthur, his daughter's 'real promise' became irrelevant.

"I'm so sorry Mister Mark," Jasmine said, "I flopped acid on Spalding, but Sammy was too close. A bit more, and she would lose an eye!"

Thanks God, Samantha's eyes were intact.

"Don't apologize, Jasmine," Mark said, "without your acid, we would be dead meat. Better tell me from the beginning. How did you end up on scaffolding with acid in your hands?"

"In the morning, I took Bertie and Millie to school. But the school guard said: no classes today! So I said: let's go to the 'Fill."

"In the hurricane?"

"No probs! In the rain – better! The garbage is washed away, and you may find good things. Just careful! You must go no tires and feel for rot-pits. And not in deep trenches – may flop on you. The guards let us in no-pay. One said: 'Me-te-oro-logical conditions.' 'Me-te-oro-logical' is a special word. Means: heavy rain."

"And then?"

"Then, Millie found a treasure."

"A real treasure?"

"Real! Somebody junked this? Nuts! An electric kettle! Like before, when a lot of electricity? The kettle is from stunt-less steel, so shiny. I said: we can't go through no gates. We found this treasure like we're rats, right?"

"Rats? Were you digging outside your territory?" Mark asked.

"Rats, it's like stealing. Not at any terratory, just at the other gang's stake. Well, almost like stealing... They're sissies and don't dig in the rain. But the guards may still take the kettle. They say: we let you in me-te-oro-ligically, – so the kettle's ours. No, we must go Mudway at the dam."

"Do you mean: 'mid-way'?"

Frederick chuckled. "New toponymics, Mark. Mudway! Below the dam, there is a secret passage to the 'Fill. So secret, everybody knows it, except the guards. And the FBI."

"If it's so secret, why everybody pay ten bucks at the gates?"

"At Mudway, you cross the creek three-feet deep in the mud. For anti-sissies only!" Samantha said. It sounded like she had tried the Mudway already.

"And the landfill guards are not anti-sissies?" Mark asked.

Jasmine shook her head. "No-o-o. They aren't fifty pur-scent! So, we went Mudway and ran to Mister Frederick's plant."

"Was it you banging at the gate?"

"Millie – with a brick. He's usually quiet, but can be loud – if he wants to! Nobody to the gates. So I said: Mister Spalding is gone, but no probs, we can open from inside. Bertie can climb our secret hole behind bomb number one."

"So secret, everybody knows it?" Mark asked.

"Everybody knows, but a grown-up or a sissy can't climb. So, we went around. Suddenly: bang! Bang! A shotgun!"

"Spalding was shooting..."

"Goddamn Spalding!" Frederick said, "You know, Mark, it's all my fault. I sold Spalding the detos! Stupid! He said: his cousin got into stripping business, needed to demolish something. I even helped Spalding to build his TriSafe blasting box... Explained – everything!"

"There is no fault of yours, Fred," Mark said. "Spalding learned TriSafe detos in the Army. Clever bastard, he cheated everybody, yours truly including. Don't dwell on it. How you and the kids ended up behind the reactors?"

"Oh, my story is simple enough. Because of the hurricane, I released all the workers, Denny, the foreman, and the Kingsleys. Sam and I set two last reactors to finish their cycles and planned to bail-off too. Suddenly, Spalding walks into the office, points his gun at me and says: I'm sorry, Mister Stolz, but could you pass me the firesafe keys? I assumed it was all about the money. At Syntegas, we always keep one hundred grand in the safe, for running expenses: coal, chemicals, plastic scrap, and so on."

"In such case, I would surrender the keys. One hundred grand is a lot of money, but I wouldn't lose my life over it."

"That's what I thought! So Spalding walks me to bomb number three. Both hands to a relief valve! There is a relief valve, at the back of the bomb... I was very pissed off, but not too scared. No problems: Spalding leaves, – I unscrew the bloody valve and free myself. Started computing in my head, how much pressure was inside, so I would not burn everything to smithereens. Meanwhile, the bastard brings in Sam and Marty, and ties them too. And then: oh shit! He wrapped everything with Primacord! At that point, I remembered Billy's Operation Titanic and got ready to shit my pants. And then: boom! The FBI Superman arrived and saved the day!"

"You are exaggerating, Fred. Your FBI Superman only shot off the freaking detonator. Jasmine is our Superwoman!"

"I'm not no Superwoman, Mister Mark," Jasmine said. "I was shit... Sorry, I mean: I was very scared. Even more than my first time on rot-pits! Millie and Bertie stood against the wall, I climbed on them – and through the hole. I said: need a weapon! Lucky, – that big glass. Sammy calls it: 'nitro-laser.' A special word."

"That's 'neutralizer,' Jassy," Samantha corrected, "I prepared it for Mister Stolz to flip pH in number one."

"In fact, it's only called 'neutra-lizer,' but really it's sulfuric acid! H2SO4. Like in a stand-art car battery, only much, much stronger. Con-cent-rated?"

"Right," Mark smiled. For a barefoot scav, who barely finished her fourth grade and was dropping funny words all over the place, Jasmine's knowledge was amazing. The future of modern Chemistry rested in good hands.

"So I fought: what if I flop neutra-lizer on Spalding? But Sammy sat on the floor and I was afraid to spill on her. And then, Spalding, I mean: the Butcher... He shot Mister Mark! And I said: the city-action digger-or-ate-it beyond our can't-roll..."

Frederick's eyes opened wide.

"Deteriorated beyond your control? Did you really think in these special words?" Mark asked.

"No, Mister Mark. I thought: holy crap! At the 'Fill, nobody thinks in special words. Only Mister Frederick can talk in special words can-tin-us-ly. But I need to learn too! The 'Fill words are no good. I like special words way better."

Frederick recovered from his shell-shock. "You don't have to use special words all the time, Jassy. If you thought: holy crap, just say: holy crap!"

"OK, Mister Frederick. So I said: holy crap! So, I – bang! And flopped the glass!"

"When I heard Sam screaming about the wires," Frederick said, "I closed my eyes and said: Ladies and Gents, the show is over, we're dead. Suddenly: bang! We're still alive and through to the other side of my Year Zero!"

Mark shook his head. "The Year Zero you say? Just this morning, I thought about it! Houston has landed in your Year Zero! Apocalypse now! The feds will quarantine us and send no help. We don't have 'good neighborhoods' and 'slums' anymore: the entire city is a slum. I even invented a new name for our little street: West Canal Slum..."

"The West Canal Slum? WCS for short. Not bad!" Frederick tried the new name like an exotic foreign dish. "But about the Apocalypse – you're wrong! We've traversed a singularity!"

"A singularity?"

"In the math, Mark. For many years, people were convinced you couldn't extract a square root from a negative number. Then, Complex numbers were discovered, and any fractional power of a negative number became possible. Still, a problem: zero couldn't be raised to a negative power. So, Dirac invented his Delta-function."

"Fred, you are talking to a humanitarian who has not achieved even the first degree of your Masonic techno-enlightenment. I studied behavioral psychology in the Uni."

"The singularity is like a black hole, or a wormhole. You pass through the hole, and there is a new universe on the other side. Stephen Hawking and his baby universes, remember?"

"I'm sorry, Fred, you've lost me. I admit, that book about the baby universes, I read it only to page twelve."

"OK – never mind. You can ask Billy later. What I want to say: the end of the world at the Year Zero is only our imagination. The end of our known world. I mean: the world, as our pre-Meltdown generation knows it. But the new world, on the other side of our Year Zero, is not necessary bad. Perhaps, even better. Humans will survive, at least as a biological species. We will adjust, Mark. We will learn to live in the new universe."

"You were not such an optimist, Fred. I remember, you said we targeted for a disaster, like in Detroit."

"In Flint and Detroit, they couldn't do it because they still had places to go. So, there was a cut-throat competition for the escape. The society broke apart. Finally, the strong were all gone to someplace better, and the weak were left to die. But here in the South – it won't be like this."

"Why?"

"We have no place to go, Mark. You can't run away from the planet Earth, can you? So, the strong will sit here and help each other, and help the weak at the same time. For what I see, Houston will be fine. Polio and cholera? We're not in the Tenth Century and know few things about bacteria. The marauders? No problems! We will catch them one-by-one and send to cut coal for everybody. Our brand-new West Canal Slum will be OK. Happiness is the difference between what you have and what you want. We just need to adjust what we want, that's all!"

"Have you converted to Ruth Levin teachings? Just-Adjust?"

"Little to do with the Levins. Jasmine and her brothers moved to live in whatever remains of our house. Elvira is happy: now she has half the house and twice the family." Frederick bent over the bed and whispered into Mark's ear, "I kid you not, Elvira and I haven't had such a wonderful sex for ages!"

# Chapter 28

The sunset just began, and early stars appeared to accompany a first-quarter Moon through the night. In this part of the hospital ward, the only source of light was a dim LED lantern between the beds. Jasmine and Samantha sat on the frame of the broken window, measuring the Moon angular size with their thumbs.

The sunsets are so beautiful now. Before the Meltdown, one could not see real sunsets. Not in the gigawatt city, with its yellowish backdrop of air pollution and its wasteful street lights. A definitive improvement here.

Let's try Just-Adjust, Mark decided. I want myself a beautiful sunset, with young Moon and few stars on the side! And here it comes: one personal sunset for Mark Pendergrass. Happy?

Another swish of multiple bare feet behind the partition, the plastic film opened, and Mark saw the rest of his family. Patrick immediately jumped on Mark for a bear-hug, Pamela followed.

"Easy, Ricky! Pam! Remember, Daddy still has stitches on his arm," Mary hugged Mark and gave him an endless kiss.

"You're late," Clarice said, "I sent you my message ages ago."

"Oh, the usual," Mary waved her hand, "getting kids together is like herding cats! For starters, we sent Ricky to fetch e-mails. Good luck! Three hours! What did you do for three hours, Ricky?"

"Mom, I was a bit preoccupied."

"Preoccupied! OK, Ricky. Tell Daddy how exactly you were preoccupied!" Mary demanded.

"With Monica, from our class. Didn't see her for ages and ages!"

William smiled, Samantha and Pamela laughed. Davy looked around and decided to join the laughter too.

"For ages! Five days, if I count right!" Mary said.

"Honey, life goes on," Mark said. "Patrick spent three hours with a girlfriend, no big deal."

"She is not a girlfriend, Dad. Just... a classmate, OK?"

"OK, Ricky," Pamela said. "Let's call her a classmate, whatever. For your info, Dad, Monica is the girl, who now, by pure chance, – sits next to Ricky on every lesson!"

Upon this revelation, Patrick made Pamela a face, which caused yet another burst of laughter.

Mark smiled. Patrick, demonstratively indifferent to girls half a year ago, started turning into a young man.

Mary was dressed in her old, home use only, blouse and tattered skirt, positively not something 'appropriate' just one week ago. She had Mark's presents on: the necklace and the bracelet with the real Swarovski crystals. He looked at her feet. Quite out of character, her beaten-up clogs, which used to be mandatory for going out, and made Mary complain of the blisters, were now replaced: with the black-and-golden barefoot sandals!

Pamela had Patrick's T-shirt and Mary's skirt. This particular skirt was made of their bedroom curtain, and Mary never liked it, saying the colors were too saturated and the flowers – too large. But the bright colors and extra-large flowers were exactly what Pamela envisaged. The T-shirt, way too tight for her, exposed the tummy, while the skirt happened to be too wide, – to be supported at the waistline by a length of rope with uncountable fancy knots. Her brown-and-green kama'a-ole and earrings made of green and yellow Lego blocks matched the improvised Calypso costume.

"You look awesome," Mark said, "your new fashion is wonderful, girls."

"I like it too," Mary proudly demonstrated her bare feet. "I feel like I'm twelve again. That's the last time I played pirates with my sister."

Patrick's pirate costume consisted of a pair of jeans, converted into below-knee shorts, and his favorite bandana. His dream was fulfilled: a standard-issue Army knife hung from the neck in a self-made plastic scabbard! He had finally convinced his Mom that no self-respecting ten-year-old should leave home without a proper weapon.

William's shorts were made from patched uniform trousers, and instead of the knife he had a donation bucket over his neck. Not the politically-correct official Salvation Way red plastic either, but a slum design. A proper, luxurious, no-nonsense, beggar bucket manufactured from rusted half-gallon tin, with an inscription written on it with a black permanent marker: Say YES to beggars. DONATE TO EVERYBODY. William wore welding goggles where one black glass had been replaced with an old camera lens.

"What do you have on your face, William?" Mark asked.

"My reading glasses. Sam's invention."

"Invention!" Samantha said, "just luck! Grand David found his box of war photos. The albums were all wet, and the pictures all ruined, but he gave me his old camera. First, I wanted to build a make-believe steampunk goggles for Bertie. Zap attached the lens to old goggles from the 'Fill, I looked: wow! Well, Zap did the rest."

"Can you read this?" Mark picked the business card.

"Hold it to the light and upside down," William instructed. With his arm stump, he touched the lens to adjust the focus. "VET-TO-VET. Cool."

"It really works!"

"Four letters at the time. I still have to figure out how to turn pages. Mister Todd can't call me totally blind no more."

"Have you lost your Salvation Way bucket?"

"We've lost Salvation Way altogether," William said. "SWC is closed since the hurricane, but the charities are running fine. People figured out they can run soup kitchens and collect donations without having a bunch of old-timers in blue uniforms bossing everybody around."

"Billy started rap lessons," Pamela said. "With that Quad at the market who has two different girlfriends every day."

"Jack-the-Rapper?" Mark asked.

William nodded. "Jack says, I have a potential."

"Writing the stuff, or just singing?"

"Both."

"Flop it on our heads, then."

"It's not ready for flopping."

"Flop the best part of it."

William touched his goggles. "OK. But it's not exactly rap. And please: don't laugh."

"We are listening."

"Promise?"

"Real promise," Mark looked at Samantha.

"OK, OK, set ready for your laughter, conspirators. I know what the real promise means between two of you! So it goes like this," he pointed his lens into Mark's personal sunset and started reading, punching the rhythm with his stump instead of a fist:

We will never fly back to the Moon,

We forget about Popper and Kuhn,

World of Bohr and Einstein,

World of Tolkien's runes

Now ending in slums,

And is ending too soon...

He stopped and shook his head. "Na-ah, give me another week to polish the rest! Besides, Jack says it's geeky. I'm missing the intended target audience."

Frederick chuckled, "Popper and Kuhn? Yeah, right! Your Jack has no idea who they are!"

"Believe me, Jack knows! When he had two arms and two legs, he also had two Ph.D. – from Stanford. In modern English literature and in History of Science! I told him that now – even better. He can call himself a Quad Ph.D.!"

"I will not laugh," Mark said, "your poetry sounds very darn good. Continue working on your rap."

"I told you, Dad. It's not rap."

"Whatever. But please take notice: the stand-up comedian career is futile."

Life was going on. A bit difficult, and a bit tight here and there, but not unhappy, and sometimes – even funny. Normal. Mark would not even mind his younger kids meeting their dates-to-be in the woods. They dealt with the Sheldon Butcher, and the woods were reasonably safe – once again.

Mark smiled. They were not clinging on their former upper middle-class status any longer. Whatever pretense of their pre-Meltdown lifestyle they had – all blown away by the hurricane and washed by the flood. The sun evaporated the rest of Mary's 'appropriate' and 'not appropriate' dichotomy, and they became an equally-standard slum family from the equally-standard American slum: from the unkempt hear down to their permanently bare, one hundred percent anti-sissy feet. Much better this way.

"Mommy!" Davy exclaimed suddenly. "Mommy! My legs!"

"Legs?" Clarice lifted the bed sheet. And then – they saw a little miracle. The polio started retreating. Davy was smiling and wiggling his toes. On both feet!

Mark looked into the sunset. Whatever the Year Zero throws at them, they deal with it. One thing at the time.

###
Dear Reader! Thank you for reading my book.

If you have enjoyed it, would you be so nice to leave me a review at your favorite retailer? If you believe the book is so-so, or even worse: if you have barely managed to the end of such a hopeless garbage – please do not write anything... Just joking! I am very interested in your opinion – positive, negative, or neutral. Writing about the humanity crisis is not an easy task. Everything is possible, but not every outcome is equally probable. If you think of the way to make the book more convincing or have spotted a logical flaw – please kindly let me and the other readers know through your reviews.

May the future be kind to you and to all you love.

Mike McKay.

2009

Other books by Mike McKay:

Houston, 2030: With Proper Legwork

Houston, 2015: Miss Uncertainty

# Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28
