Night 48: Disciplinary Therapy Corridor
[from here]
S.T. jogged ahead of the paramedic squad and their lit flashlights. He knew this territory too fucking well.
Then his radio cut in and shredded stealth like a duck-squeezer preparing to throw out a sixpack ring.
"What do you want to bet Jack's coyote meat while the first do-gooder brigade is still working to overcome a few feet of vertical." If the guy was really out there, bleeding out in a forest full of overgrown zoo specimens, S.T. might be able to summon up some genuine sympathy. Chances were that the most they'd find was a pit covered in out-of-season palm fronds. When he'd thought coyote he hadn't meant Wily E. The kind that kept making the nightly news when suburban sprawl ran up against habitats and people were surprised when their Tru-Green lawns had things living in them. Except here the coyotes were probably the size of Jaguars. The cars. "Problem is -- It's a trap!" The complete lack of fear in his voice -- hopefully -- was enough of a tipoff that he was still talking to Jill. Or himself. The torture concourse was quiet. Flights still in progress, pity about the in-flight movie.
He turned the first knob. Still tightly locked. He flipped a middle finger, invisible in the gloom, at the door, and went to the next.
S.T. jogged ahead of the paramedic squad and their lit flashlights. He knew this territory too fucking well.
Then his radio cut in and shredded stealth like a duck-squeezer preparing to throw out a sixpack ring.
"What do you want to bet Jack's coyote meat while the first do-gooder brigade is still working to overcome a few feet of vertical." If the guy was really out there, bleeding out in a forest full of overgrown zoo specimens, S.T. might be able to summon up some genuine sympathy. Chances were that the most they'd find was a pit covered in out-of-season palm fronds. When he'd thought coyote he hadn't meant Wily E. The kind that kept making the nightly news when suburban sprawl ran up against habitats and people were surprised when their Tru-Green lawns had things living in them. Except here the coyotes were probably the size of Jaguars. The cars. "Problem is -- It's a trap!" The complete lack of fear in his voice -- hopefully -- was enough of a tipoff that he was still talking to Jill. Or himself. The torture concourse was quiet. Flights still in progress, pity about the in-flight movie.
He turned the first knob. Still tightly locked. He flipped a middle finger, invisible in the gloom, at the door, and went to the next.