Read Online Hazardous Materials by Matthew Quinn Martin - Free Book Online Page B

just felt it slip away like stones dropped in a murky lake. The people inside, they’d been, what? Gargoyles? Lizards? Some kind of aliens? It all seemed so insane to him now.
    But not then. Not as he’d stood staring down the barrels of two pistols at what he swore were shape-shifting demons bent on destroying or enslaving the human race. It didn’t seem crazy as the blood pounded hot in his head. It didn’t seem crazy when he heard his brother’s voice, and the Polybius’s, too, telling him to prepare to take aim. It didn’t seem crazy as that one strange word flashed over and over in his mind: Sormen.
    At least no one had gotten hurt. He could comfort himself with that. He’d pulled the trigger, that much he knew. It was only after they’d taken him down that he’d remembered how he’d gotten the guns. Guns—that’s a laugh , he thought. Yes, they were all laughing, eventually. After the screaming had stopped, of course, they were all laughing at the idiot shouting about demons. They were all laughing at the idiot who’d shot them—with a couple of water pistols.
    They were all laughing, except the policeman who tackled him, grinding his face into the cement floor with a nightstick firm against his neck.“All right! Game over, pal!” the policeman had shouted. “Where are the cameras?”
    Cameras? Jarrod didn’t know what to make of that. Not until he looked at his hand and the gun in it. The black paint flaking off in big chips, revealing the translucent red plastic beneath. He’d come there to shoot demons, with Ludwig’s water pistols.
    Jarrod wished he could sink further into the cruiser’s cool vinyl seat, knowing it was the most comfortable surface his backside was likely to encounter for some time. The cop in the front seat leaned back. “You that same kid they pulled off the bridge?”
    â€œSorry.”
    â€œI said, you that same kid—”
    â€œI know. Just saying I was sorry.”
    â€œAhh, man’s got jokes.” He twisted the ignition, and they began to roll away from the bright lights of Times Square, away from the flashing cameras and gawking tourists, away from the madness. Jarrod wondered what his reception would be like down at the station. After the riot act that detective had read to him last time, he figured there’d be a rock-hard slab waiting for him in the Tombs tonight. That would be his bed. He just hoped he wouldn’t have to share it with a rock-hard con who felt frisky.
    Maybe it’d be for the best if they did. If they locked him up for a bit, for his own good and everyone else’s. What if I’d taken that swan dive off the bridge? he thought. If I’d gotten hold of a real gun, real bullets? What was he going to do next and not remember? An eight-by-ten cell, three hots and a cot—it was starting to seem okay. Prison couldn’t be all that bad. Or maybe they’d just pitch him into the loony bin.
    â€œSo what gives? Some kinda protest? Art stunt? Trying to get on YouTube, something like that?”
    â€œSomething like that.” The words were dead in Jarrod’s mouth. “Look, don’t I have the right to remain silent or something?”
    The cop grumblingly clammed up, and together they rode, not exchanging another word as they cruised into the ghost town of lower Manhattan.
    â€œUnit Forty-two?” the radio squelched.
    â€œThis is Forty-two, copy. Over.”
    â€œYou are ordered to stand down. Please pull over. Over.”
    â€œCopy. Standing down. Over.” He hung the mike back up on its hook.
    Through the back window, Jarrod watched the cruiser’s blue and red flashers bounce off a long black limo behind them. A mountain with a flattop haircut, in a black Armani suit and sunshades, walked up to the driver’s-side door. “Agent Diamond. Homeland Security.” He handed the officer some papers.