Age of Monsters John Schneider (digital book reader TXT) 📖

“Take five people,” he said.

The group of them faded back, giving Allison a modicum of privacy.

“Doctor Holland,” Bud said quietly, “I know you mean well, but I'm going to have to ask you to leave her alone.”

“What happened to her?” Rosa asked.

“When you first saw her,” Bud asked, “what kind of things did you think might have happened to her?”

Rosa sighed.   “All the usual, I guess.”

And boy was that cynical, she thought.  She had to be careful what she tossed off as 'usual'.  She was, after all, in a unique position to see ALL the human wreckage that other people missed.  All the usual?  Drugs? Domestic violence?  Street violence?  Gangs?  Drugs again? Prostitution?  Strip-bar, for sure.

Allison, Rosa thought, telling the truth to shame the Devil, just screamed ALL those things.  You didn't get more counter-culture than your piercing and body-art crowd.  Allison practically wore a uniform.

Rosa knew that story too – 'she-got-in-with-the-wrong-crowd'.

Of course, you had to be in the strip bar in the first place.

Rosa wondered if that was how Bud had met her.

Bud eyed her, as if anticipating her thought.

“I was a newspaper guy.  Let's say I sort of stumbled into it.

“L.A.,” he said. “'City of Fallen Angels.  See, there's a reason a darker element goes with all this counter-culture – it's always where you get the sleaziest sort of exploitation. Trafficking, slavery, drugs – and all the crime and corruption that goes with it.

“But once you're in,” he said, “that life doesn't let you go easy.  Turns out some of the people she worked with were a little more serious than your average.  You get a lot of people up too late on Crystal Meth, they get some funny ideas.”

“What did they do to her?” Rosa asked, bracing for ugliness.

“What did they do to her?  Name it.  All the sorts of things that go on when a human being is considered an exchange of capital.  Let's just say, there's a reason she carries a gun.”

Bud glanced grimly over his shoulder, keeping his voice low.

“And part of it's my fault,” he said.

He frowned bitterly.  “When you stumble onto something bad, you can have naive moments of self-righteous idealism.”  He smiled cynically.  “You might even think you can make a difference.

“It turned out, I was just letting a lot of really nasty people know someone was talking about them.”

Bud eyed Rosa directly.  “She hasn't been safe ever since.  That's why it's my job to look after her.”

In the corner, Allison's nausea seemed to have subsided, and she stood slowly, turning back to the group.

“Sorry,” she said.

Bud handed her a small bottle of water.  “Keep your fluids up,” he said.

Lucas allowed them all another ten minutes before heaving himself back on his own broken foot.  “Okay people, back to it.”

All the little tin-soldiers fell into formation.  Bud took Allison by the arm as if to help her, but she deliberately pulled away, determined to walk on her own.

Rosa said nothing more to her.  If there was a kindness to be done, she decided, it was to just let her be.

So instead, she caught up to where Lucas ambled through the ankle-deep sewage as if he were on a parade march – purposeful, a slight smile, squared shoulders – as if there was nowhere else he'd rather be.

He had Julie prancing next to him like a puppy, teasing her with casually flirtatious barbs.

“You aren't a stripper, are you?” he was asking.  “A lot of nurses I know are strippers – like one out of three.  One out of two for the ones that are hot enough.”

Rosa wondered if Lucas had overheard her talking to Bud.

Julie was blushing furiously, repressing a giggle, helplessly pleased.

It couldn't be just an act, Rosa thought.  Just programmed?

She stepped up beside them, turning a stern, meaningful eye at Julie, who stopped in mid-titter and fell discreetly back out of ear-shot.

Lucas glanced at her, mildly.  “Something on your mind, Doctor?”

“How do you do it?” Rosa asked.

“What's that, Doctor Holland?”

“How can you do what you do?”

He smiled.  “It's a gift.”

“Killing that man was nothing to you.”

“Oh, it was something,” Lucas said.  “It was the difference between you living and dying.  He was torn to shit.  Didn't have five minutes left in him.  But you would've dragged him that full five minutes, wouldn't you?”

“But you kill people,” Rosa said.  “You're a pilot.  You kill people on a large scale.  That's reality.”

Lucas considered.  Then he did the most amazing thing – he shrugged.

“There's a disconnect,” he said.  “When you're out there...” he nodded up to the sky, “... it's just a larger scale.”

He glanced down at her.  “But the 'reality' is that the job has to be done.  Someone has to do it.   And not very many people can.

“Therefore,” he said, “I'm kind of obligated.”

Rosa absorbed this quietly.  She had called it 'programming' – but now she found herself comparing it to the specific discipline it had taken her to earn her own doctorate.   At least part of it was training yourself to be aloof among the very people you were sworn to help... or in his case, protect – or blow to bits.

Living from such a perspective, Rosa could see how a man might start looking at those people as 'statistics' – and how he might become impatient with all the petty, bleeding-heart sensibilities that he was forced to live outside – yet to be held to on a dime.

To his credit, he seemed to be honestly considering his answer.  He consistently did not try to bullshit her, as he had all the rest.

Of course, she thought, archly, maybe that was how he was bullshitting her.  She had to admit, he was smooth.

“You want to know what