Fallen Nation: Party At The World's End Read Online Free Page B

front of a brick apartment building. The
engine hitched and knocked a moment before stopping. The door
kicked open, and Adam Trevino heaved a sigh for no apparent
reason.
    He plodded up the stairs to
his apartment, brooding at the way his sidearm thumped his ribs as
he climbed. Might as well fret about the gun; its weight, suddenly
uncomfortable, the vast legal machinery dedicated to keeping it in
the holster. Better that than to contemplate the empty pocket in
his overcoat, where his credentials used to be. His suspension was
in its third day. It wouldn’t be reviewed for two more, and in all
likelihood, he would be stripped of rank. Orphaned. Better to sit
at home and watch the news.
    At the door, he reached
into his pocket and removed a key-less entry fob. Pushing it once
shut down the motion and pressure sensors, pushing it twice
unlocked the door. Trevino’s front door featured a typical urban
dweller’s fetish of deadbolts, though vestigial. Inserting a key or
a tension bar would only set off the alarm.
    Upon entering one’s
apartment, one hung up one’s coat. One locked the door, and pushed
play on the answering machine. One removed shoes and turned on the
television against the gurgling backdrop of coffee
brewing.
    His eyes caught on the
citations hanging on his otherwise bare walls: bravery,
marksmanship, forensics. None of it mattered, it seemed, after one
mistake.
    He hit play on an
old-fashioned answering machine and continued through the apartment
towards his coffee machine.
    “ Adam, hi. It’s Sheila. Look, I heard about... It’s bullshit,
you’re damn fine police. It’ll blow over, I just know
it...”
    Having poured himself a cup
– black, no sugar – Trevino flopped onto a creased leather couch.
He started flipping through the channels, though he couldn’t manage
to ignore the damn answering machine.
    “ I just wanted to say, we’re all here for you, you know?
Anything we can do to get you back out there, just...Call me,
okay?”
    “ Christ, Sheila. Adopt a dog,” Trevino grunted. The machine
beeped. “Next message...” There was a long pause. The voice that
emanated from the speaker sounded somehow more robotic, more cold,
than the automated voice of the answering machine.
    “ Good evening, Adam. We understand PA SBI unit no longer
requires your services. Subject to 28 U.S.C. 561 (d), you are
hereby informed of appointment as Special Deputy US Marshal Adam
Trevino.”
    Trevino almost dropped his
coffee.
    “ You report for duty tomorrow, 7 AM, in room 101 of the
Federal Building. Congratulations, Deputy.”
    Trevino stared at the
answering machine, waiting for the other shoe to drop. He
entertained the thought that his old buddies were playing a
practical joke on him. But no. They knew that was one thing an
officer did not joke about. Certainly not now. He looked up at the citations
on his walls. Finally, he smiled to himself. “Beats the shit out of
the Pinkertons, doesn’t it?”
    He settled into the news,
still unable to wipe that smile from his face. A blond news
reporter stood in front of a fence with a sign that read Pennhurst
Psychiatric Hospital. Her perfect little face was creased with
solemnity and her eyes were perfectly blank.
    “ Can you tell us more about that, Amy?” the voice-over
asked.
    Trevino's attention
wandered as he wondered why he was planning on drinking a pot of
coffee at this hour.
    “ ... for ten months, involuntarily committed in the wake of a
series of bizarre attacks on 24-hour eateries and places of worship
in Montgomery county.”
    Amy was replaced with
grainy surveillance footage of a 1950’s style diner, devoid of
audio. A bald man stood on a counter, dressed like a South American
guerrilla, wearing what looked like an explosive vest. He was
preaching wildly while waving a detonator. A purple-haired freak
ran around the store throwing money at hostages. Two terrified
looking waitresses stood in the background, holding up a black
banner with white