Welcome to River City, pt. 1
Just as evolution takes it part to cleanse the earth of useless species, it can be said the same thing happens to societies. Small towns will eventually give way to larger districts, small cities and eventually a sprawling metropolitan area will consume what had once been just a small frontier town on the basin of a river. This is the same sort of story that happens to locales all over the country, but there are few cities quite like River City in the heart of America’s Midwest. Snuggled in close to a large enough river, smugglers found it home almost two centuries before and until recently the criminal element decided to grow quietly, content with its place in the socio-economic system. But just as evolution had it in for the dodo, it seemed too that River City was doomed to a life of lessening social grace every year.
Now Entering: River City, home of the 1993 state champions, girls volleyball team.
Population: 1,203,559
Est. 1798
I suppose I could say I saw it coming, but what can I say I was a young kid then. Full of ideas, full of optimism, but fourteen years on a police force that reminds me more of a small army keeping peace in an active war zone sort of eschews the opinions of an old man. Sure, I see it from time to time, the young pups with something to prove and I’ve been to plenty of their funerals over the years as well. Whoever told these guys that crime doesn’t pay, forgot about the River City disclaimer:
“Crime only pays if you’re not dead.”
As I pull onto the 121 Loop it’s usually my time for reflection, to plan where I’m going to put my teams for the night but as I stare my fifteenth anniversary in the face I wonder what’s the use? The potholes off mile marker 17 remind me of the shoot out last week that left two of my officer’s dead and left a wake of blood that only just washed off thanks to the rain. The mob was starting to use explosives again, and it’s a wonder how they forgot about the National Guard patrolling the streets two years ago quelling their riot the only way the army knows how 5.56 rounds set on three round burst and the occasional AT-4 round down the neck of an armored Escalade.
It’s all somewhat depressing if it weren’t for this being the normal sort of things that happen here. Look at me now, I’m the only fool driving into the city as rush hour traffic is bottle-necking and the commuters risk life and limb to get out of the city as fast as they can. The National Guard still drill in the city of course, but at least their brand of camouflage can’t be seen patrolling the streets with M-4s strapped to their chest and helicopters buzzing about, but it’s amazing how quickly some people can forget. But they’re still out there, doing their weekend a month, two weeks a year, and fifteen months at war only to come home to this.
I pull onto the connecting highway, and my exit is less than three miles into the southbound highway that could take me out of state in three hours. We have resorted to meeting at the old Air National Guard base, long since abandoned by the Air Force for a location much safer for their equipment. It serves a fairly nice staging area, however, but I can’t say I’m happy being stationed at the Headquarters Regiment, I suppose the optimist in me misses Alpha Team of precinct 6. But that’s the problem with promotion, the pay is always good, but the risk involved sometimes makes me wonder why I did it in the first place, I was relatively safe in the southern end of town mainly dealing with Meth dealers and prostitutes, but make a name for yourself in the press and the next thing you know, you’re a super soldier in the eyes of the PR pricks and working the Mob beat.
Fuck me, just five years and four days to retirement and I’ll have a nice place on the lake. Provided I live that long.
Our new delivery of vehicles decided to show up today, it’s depressing to know that the Air National Guard’s aircraft have to deliver our tactical vehicles now because we can’t trust rail as much as we can trust driving them ourselves direct from the dealer. They’re nice enough, armored Humvees that the army didn’t want any more, fully refurbished and mostly bulletproof, not a bad deal for fifty-five thousand a pop.
The wrought iron gates pull apart for me and just like every other day, I make my way through the primary and secondary defense structures and the sentry guards wave me through after checking the exterior of my vehicle for explosives. The Tertiary defense structure exists as a mere barbed-wire fence with firing positions for defense posture, and I used to remark about how this is supposed to be a police station and most every laughs at me thinking I’m kidding, but we stopped being cops a long time ago. Seven-hundred-fifty and falling, we’re little more than an under-equipped army fighting an enemy that we allowed to grow under our nose.
The underground garage was put in place to protect all our vehicles, and thankfully it’s worked as the Mob has little intention of another mortar attack, the truce of innocents is still as shaky as ever, but the more we squeeze them the more the threat looms in the future. Punching the clock here is little more than gathering your troops, I have five vehicles of three men each and dictating the plan of the day, but mine is always the same, go out, do what you can when you can and come back alive. It’s worked well enough for me so far, only lost two in the past year and a half as part of this unit, but I aim to keep it that way.
It’s Thursday night, our turn to traverse the school yard, one of my least favorite zones. We’ll have the turret out tonight and whoever is the sucker to get the short end of that stick will likely call in sick tomorrow. And I can’t say I blame him. We mostly load in bean bags when things are quiet, but the real ordinance is never far behind. They’ve stepped up their attacks on us randomly over the past three months, something in my brain tickles because I know something big is going down but too bad we’re always too busy for real police work anymore.
My team is one man short, but my radioman tells me we’re good to go and I don’t press the issue, in this city everyone needs to take a day for himself once and a while. On the off hand, a stray thought hits me and I’m only hoping that he’s not turned into one of the Halflings that moonlight on the side with the badge in one hand and a crack rock in the other. Not that it hasn’t happened to me before, but I’ve been lucky the last few years as clean cops are hardest to come by. We’re up in the armory in no time, strapping armor over every part of our exposed areas, weapons and ammunition are next and the keys to the vehicles are forth coming after the Major’s briefing.
I send my team down to the break room, the briefing room is much too small to accommodate us all, and no one likes listening to that windbag anyway. He lays it on as thick as usual, reminding us that we’re the last line of defense in a city gone chaotic, the same speech every fucking night, if there was a high school in this area still open he’d make a horribly mediocre football coach.
The vehicles are gassed and ready to depart just in time for the sun to begin its trek below the horizon, and as I always say, “It’s best to get a move on in the day light, lest we can’t see the assholes trying to kill us early on the shift.” My team hates it, but I say it anyway, everyday. It’s almost an unspoken rule around here, all the supervisors have to have their annoying little sayings or the day is just off. My driver is going through his vehicle like it’s his new toy, there was little time to test drive it so there are a lot of unknowns going on shift tonight, and these vehicles better perform.
We roll out of the compound just after 6pm, dusk is upon us and just like us, the criminals are getting their gear ready to play. Half the squad departs for the first round, they’ll be the backup contingency, but I shouldn’t need them it’s just that the roads are too crowded at night to pile a convoy of five, besides smaller groups are harder targets. If all goes well, tonight will be as quiet as last night and I can get home and listen to my wife bitch and moan about the grass being too long, again.
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