﻿A Cop’s Infection by N.F. David Published by N.F. David at Smashwords Copyright 2011 N.F. David Smashwords Edition, License Notes Thank you for downloading this free ebook. You are welcome to share it with your friends. This book may be reproduced, copied and distributed for non-commercial purposes, provided the book remains in its complete original form. If you enjoyed this book, please return to Smashwords.com to discover other works by this author. Thank you for your support. The brutal, mid-summer heat was Kyle’s hero, as it kept the car windows open, letting at least some of the stink out. Winter was the worst time to be a cop; his partner Bradley could sweat in an ice storm. They were patrolling the after-midnight streets of Brooklyn; but all Kyle could think of was a fire hose, attached to a tank full of Lava Soap. Bradley had a legendary stench: sweat, armpits and breath that could make a jolly exchange offensive. And the size of the man didn’t help. He was as tall as he was fat; crammed into the passenger's side, with a hog gut that made the glove compartment useless. All this, with a uniform forever soiled like pigs in shit, made Kyle wonder how the wife he despised, would suck it up and cheat on him with this slob. Bradley punched the roof, banging to the metal music that was still annoyingly audible through his headphones. The random noise kept Kyle in a buzz. But he never complained. The Chief knew, as popular as Bradley was with the other cops, nobody wanted to be his partner. Kyle thought he got cool points for the baby-sitting. If only the Chief knew why he stayed next to Bradley for the past two years; if only he knew, Kyle planned on killing the man. “Come out you pussies!” Bradley screamed, to the black alleys between the tenements they rode by. The pussies, infected human beings, were simply labeled Marks by the Department. Shoot on sight; miss one, kill the ten behind. Contrary to the average cop’s opinion, Kyle had no problem with the slaughter. Though he did wonder how many cops were shooting the infected, and how many were aiming at all the greater-than-pallid skin tones. The city couldn’t pay overtime, but they had the extra change to put an arsenal in every cop car that left the precinct. Cops or commandos? Pussies, Kyle thought. Commandos get return fire. Kyle made a right onto Empire Boulevard. The street had been plowed, as the common piles of trash and dead animals were mashed to the curbs. Most of the streetlights had busted lamps; the few still working, spewed a vomitous light that made anything visible look like it was sprayed with piss. And the street smelled like it; no competition for his partner. Bradley had an arm out the window, giving a middle-finger to everything they passed by. He suddenly froze, turned back and slapped Kyle on the shoulder--hard! “Stop the car kitty,” Bradley said. Kyle slowed to a stop; purposefully, happily, past Bradley’s point of interest. “Back . . . the fuck . . . up!” “So sorry Brad,” Kyle said. “No problem . . . kitty.” The lions on the force called you kitty, even if the Mark you hesitated to kill was a small boy; a boy whose red eyes could have come from the cold, teary nights as an orphan on the street; whose hoarse voice, not the bloodlust cry of the Infected, but the end-result of a child’s screams from the daily runs for his life. Good thing Bradley was there. He just reached past Kyle and blew the kid away. And the surrounding cops cheered, none, including Bradley, hearing the child’s pre-death bawl for his mother. Like all the Infected do. Kyle backed the car to position. Bradley pulled an assault rifle out the Marine smorgasbord in the rear seat. He snapped to pose, aimed at the dark slit between a garage and corner-store. One thing Kyle couldn’t question was Bradley’s ability to kill. His posture was solid steel when he hawk-eyed a target. Kyle witnessed Bradley take down a hundred Marks from a distance; all head shots, all before dinner. He knew when their day came, he’d have to be close, hopefully behind Bradley. Anything beyond the length of a gun’s barrel was already dead. “He’s there. The pussy ain’t deep enough,” Bradley said. Deep enough into the Infection. Bradley tossed the gun to the backseat. “Move on kitty.” Kyle drove on and mellowed in a stretch of silence. There was a raging fire about two blocks down the road. He glanced at his partner, saw a here-come-the-holidays expression on Bradley’s face. As Kyle drove closer, he could see a ragged ball of flame at the base of a telephone pole. The fire ran upwards and dressed the tall cylinder, licking the shredded wires above. Strong gusts made the inferno dance, and spun lit-trash in twisters down the city street. Kyle eased off the gas as they came upon the scene: a woman was propped onto a haphazard stack of pallets that fed the flame; her burning body, tied to the pole. Some miracle kept her head out the blaze. Kyle blinked nervously as she watched him with those oily red eyes that indicated Infection. She seemed calm, almost analyzing, while her blackened body roasted beneath. Bradley leaned past Kyle and peered out the window. The stink of the man mixed with an aroma of fried flesh as he checked out the sight with a lusty fascination. “Hey baby. You’re one hot piece of ass over there,” Bradley said, laughing at his own joke, uncomfortably close to Kyle’s face. “Kids must be bored to shit these days.” Kyle sped the car off and repeatedly glanced at his side-view mirror. The burning woman kept her eyes on them. “So, tell me the truth kitty. If you got The Cheese, what kind would you want?” Government Cheese: of course there were rumors the government created the virus, and like Government Cheese, gave everybody a slice. And the Infection had its own flavors. Some went Reco, as in Marine Recon. They live in shadow, are incredibly agile, and gluttonous cannibals. A victim best hope for death, before they are what’s eating them. Cock Smokers have the most dreaded form of the illness. The Infection slowly, painfully, contorts its host into a curled ball, till the spine snaps, and the victim spends his last few days in horrible agony, face planted to crotch. The woman on the pole was a DH70. They’re senseless, bloated, wanderers that randomly burst into Reco: dick-heads, seventy percent of the time. Swiss, Cheddar, and Provolone. “I’ll just eat a bullet,” Kyle said. “Shi-i-t! And let this world off the hook? Not me. Reco all the way, baby!” Bradley leaned close to Kyle. “But you’ll be a good kitty, right? You’ll pull the trigger if I get that blood-in-the-eye.” “Don’t you worry about that Bradley.” Bradley slapped Kyle’s shoulder . . . again . . . HARD! “Yeah, fuck-you right, kitty. You wouldn’t . . . shit! Game on Kyle!” Kyle knew when he heard his actual name, it was time for war. He followed Bradley’s finger; it pointed to a scene playing out in shadow over an alley wall ahead. A streetlight nearby buzzed on, off, taking the area from dim light to total darkness. Through the flashes, Kyle saw a man-shaped shadow swing wild, giving a beating to something below. “Got a Domestic!” Bradley said. Kyle rolled his eyes. He looked at the empty hole in the console; where the two-way radio should be. Dispatch only spoke to the cops who ran the upper-class areas. Every other cop was told to, 'just have fun out there'. Kyle parked a couple yards from the scene. Bradley put on his outfit: swim-goggles, a Bull Horned Helmet, and a plastic, Superman-patched bandanna tied around his mouth. He slipped a Magnum into his leg holster, pulled out a double-barrel shotgun, cocked it, and gave Kyle a thumb up. Superman feared no contagious blood splatter. The jackass. Kyle pulled out his standard-issue, and they both exited the vehicle. Bradley crept ahead, glanced back repeatedly, as if to make sure Kyle was close enough to catch. No Bradley, Kyle thought. Leaving you here couldn’t be half as much fun as walking behind you. Bradley moved to a trashed vehicle that sat in darkness by the alley’s entrance. Kyle crept along the wall, to the edge, and peeked around. Through the streetlight’s flashes, he saw a Reco in a tattered suit, kneeling on top of a naked, pot-bellied figure. With the body pinned down, the monster hammered its bloodied fists over a pulpy mass of what must have been the face. A Domestic: a Reco beat-down of a DH-70; no bites between the Infected; they just pounded till knuckle hit stone. Kyle preferred the label, Assholes: cops sent to “investigate” this bullshit. What could they do? He holstered his weapon and waited for the performance. Bradley didn’t disappoint as he burst from around the wreck and charged. The Reco turned and snarled. Its sharp, mutated teeth grew wild, split purple lips into dangling shreds of flesh. The monster screamed like a wild hog. Its mouth opened more than wide, the strain on the grayish skin popped some of the leaky boils that covered its face. The Reco leapt up and rushed Bradley with blinding speed. Kyle hated himself for the minute concern he had for his partner. The monster was so fast, and almost on him. But at about three feet to contact, Bradley whipped his shotgun around in one smooth motion, and pulled the trigger. The Reco’s head exploded like a birthday cake full of grenades. The body-left-over jerked a jig before it tipped backwards and hit the ground--dead. Kyle approached the DH-70, ignoring what he knew would be Bradley’s triumphant display: a super man, drenched in contagion, though far from its grasp. “I could back paddle in Mark juice and stay pretty,” he would boast. Kyle stood over the figure, tried, but couldn’t keep his thoughts professional. Under the goo of busted flesh, rested one gorgeous pair of breasts. “Go head Kyle,” Bradley said. “I got an extra rubber.” Kyle kept his eyes on the woman; saw no sign of respiration. The Mark was dead. He’d let Bradley make sure. “I promise not to tell Elaine.” Kyle turned and struggled to keep his rage at bay. The short run had done a number on Bradley as he was plopped down on a dirty mattress, breathing heavily. Blood and gore plastered the fat man’s upper-half. Kyle looked closer, saw Bradley’s bandanna hanging over his neck. In a flash of light, Kyle saw a line of blood drip out of his partner’s mouth. Kyle lost all control and cracked up laughing. Bradley, creepily, laughed along. Not so super this time. You swallowed it, Kyle thought. He cut it off and hoped Bradley didn’t get the punchline. Relief flooded through Kyle's veins. No need for revenge; Bradley just killed himself. Kyle gave a thumbs-up. Bradley slowly returned it; with a growing, wicked smile. “So . . . you gonna finish her off or what?” Kyle said. “I may be fat, but I ain’t greedy Kyle. Like I said . . . there’s more than one condom.” Kyle shook his head, tired of it all. He was eager for his shift to end. The last one as Bradley’s partner. Doesn’t matter who you are on the force; they just don’t tolerate infected police officers. “Let’s go Bradley.” “I did it once, you know? I made love to a . . . mark.” “Brad--“ “The bitch gave me another kind of cheese. I was so infected Kyle; I just couldn’t stop. I mean . . . married pussy--the only kind that makes you feel more like a man, even while you’re fucking her husband.” Kyle put a hand over his weapon, his blood boiling. Bradley licked his lips, raised a finger out of shadow, and pointed straight ahead. “Promise I won't tell,” he said. Kyle saw movement in a corner of his eye. He spun around, stood face to face with the now upright Dh70. Through the mush of swollen skin, a gaping maw full of fangs gargled a hiss. It was a 30-percenter. Kyle put an arm out for protection, reached for his gun with the other hand. He felt murderous pain on his forearm as the new Reco bit down on it. Kyle pulled the gun out, put it to the monster’s head and blew its brains out of one of its ears. He shook the Reco off and spun to his enemy. Bradley’s wide grin flashed in, out of darkness. His filthy teeth resembled . . . a lion’s, after a meal. The horns on his helmet jutted out an aura of shadow, as if from Bradley’s own skull. “We’re partners for life Kyle. I’ll never call you kitty again.” Two scenes played out in Kyle’s mind: he could do what he said he would, open wide and swallow his own gunfire, or he could try a clean shot on Bradley. He knew both options were an immediate cure for his infection. Kyle kept on Bradley a few moments, then burst to the right, out the alley, and ran for the cop car. He heard Bradley’s huffing and puffing behind. Kyle moved in a zag, hoping to make a difficult target. He saw pairs of red eyes glaring from the darkness on both sides of him. Recos weren’t stingy; their horrid cries were like pack whistles. And these Recos screamed--a gang of them! Kyle heard the stampede, saw the crowd’s blood-eyed glare focused on him. He kept on, even though the Recos were so close he could smell the hot, decayed stink of their breath. But like a flock of birds, they turned, blasted past him and went for Bradley. Kyle heard his former partner cry out, and the crash of the Reco’s team-tackle. “Kyle! Kyle don’t leave me!!” Bradley screamed. Kyle didn’t look back. He reached the cop car, hopped in, and twisted the dangling keys. Marks weren’t known for car theft. The vehicle revved to life, its headlights lit the scene ahead: dozens of Recos rolling over each other, stacked on what must have been Bradley below. They sounded like a barn full of starving pigs as each one fought to the bottom of the pile. Kyle hoped Bradley could see through a crack in the madness, as he held up a middle finger, kept it on the slaughter, and sped the car backwards, steering with his free hand. Kyle reached the main road, stomped on the brake, and cried over his predicament. There was an agony in the ragged bite wound on his forearm; but it was the contrasting silence outside the alley that shook him. This couldn’t be fair. Kyle knew that he had been the good guy all these years--already the victim. And he wasn’t satisfied with Bradley’s violent death. Even the possibility of playing the marksman, while his infected partner fled over Brooklyn’s streets gave him nothing. Elaine appeared in his thoughts, naked, kneeling on his bedroom floor. Bradley walked out of darkness, still in uniform and filthy as ever, picked her up and slammed her face-down on the bed. Somehow, they both saw Kyle and laughed as Bradley rode her from behind. But if Bradley was alive, he was infected. Kyle saw his partner slowly morph into Reco. He smiled as Bradley bit Elaine's neck; laughed as she died a suffering Cock Sucker. Kyle wished he would have just left her, as Elaine’s infection was guaranteed. There was no reason to go home. Kyle was trapped--again--in choice. Should he die a man; or should he die. . . . He started laughing . . . HARD! Kyle stepped on the gas, and spun the car in a donut. He turned on the siren, rolled down his window and screamed along. None of the Infected seemed to care. Kyle righted the car and sped down Empire Boulevard. He wondered if Bradley’s father, Chief of the Department, would still be awake. However he was, they were gonna have a long talk. Kyle felt the Infection creep through his body like ants through his asshole. The Chief was a genuinely funny guy; not so much like Bradley. Kyle cried in his laughter. Would Bradley’s father get the joke when Kyle told the man that he was the one who bit his son? ###